the splash of milk in morning coffee
the worn pairs of socks sliding down hallways
the snort of true laughter
and the crinkles of true faces
and the gaps between teeth
the colour of ideas, rainbow, tomorrow
The scraping of chairs, the taker of seats
The owner of space
the rustle of feathers, the rustle of papers
the leaning forward, the leaning in
the unfolded petals, of letting light in, open
Turned to face the sun
“I drink too much tea,” she said while making herself a mug. She lived in contradictions, she smiled in the face of irony and always added three heaped sugars.
“Stop, ” I said. ” You’ll become an instant diabetic.”
“I’m sure that’s not how it works.” She replied, the corner of her mouth inching upwards to create that dimple on her left cheek I loved. Continue reading Oyster
This morning, the sight of a blank page was promising.
Ideas came freely, open, into my brain and out of my pen seamlessly. I think I’m better at writing in the morning. More likely, I’m just less awake and therefore incapable of feeling any pressure to be good. A usually overactive mind at this stage has only a few concerns; keep eyes open, yawn, get coffee, write. Continue reading Morning 18/7/17
Tonight I am left with feelings of profound emptiness that would make a good poem if I had the willpower.
You are the main act tonight. I’m devoted to our situation. I’m undertaking a critical analysis of everything we’ve said to each other over the past five months. Easy enough. Meaningful conversation fails me when you’re around. I usually opt for meager nodding or lame pleasantries if I’m feeling brave.
I rarely do. Continue reading 11:00pm
I sat in a dingy cafe yesterday and ordered the world’s worst coffee. I didn’t want to go anywhere trendy, or hip, or whatever word we’re using right now to describe “cool”. I didn’t want or deserve cool.
I deserved linoleum flooring, chewing gum stuck to the underside of the table, fluorescent lighting that buzzes incessantly and coffee that tastes more like commercial grade cleaning agent.
That’s what I got.
Inadequacy is an odd feeling. It’s difficult to place. It’s like jealousy’s weaker cousin that’s been sent to do the dirty work.
God does my laundry pile up.
Give me a place with books and a bit of tranquil calm and I’ll be happy.
In libraries, silence isn’t deafening. Silence in libraries is the faint clicking of keyboards, the slow and careful turn of pages, the occasional cough or sniff from someone else and the very, very distant hum of the world outside. As I type this, I am seated in such a library. This section, in particular, is steeped in Victorian architecture and when you’re as much of a history and book nerd as I am, you can’t help but feel much more elated writing an essay here than you would at home. Continue reading The Value of Libraries