The sunlight is seriously my jam. I’m shamelessly taking dance breaks to my Kanye and Jay-Z soundtrack, doing some fall cleaning in more ways than one.
I haven’t slept well for four nights straight. Sometimes I kind of never know when I’m actually awake, but that’s all right, it’s all a dream anyway.
Can I get an encore? What the hell are you waiting for?
Last night I dreamt of someone from a life long past, and he silently took my whole body in his arms like he was protecting me. He did that often when we were together. We were standing on a rooftop, his dark hair covering his eyes, my too-long hair blowing in the wind, and there was no music playing. But we danced slowly. I didn’t have to look, I knew what his eyes looked like from memory. The dance never gave an indication that it would stop. I guess that’s how you know. That’s how you know you’re not actually awake yet. The dance will always stop when you’re awake, but it’s sweet while you find your steps together. Shuffle, shake, shudder. Bow, or kiss, or hug, or make love, and on to the next one. The dream seemed to last forever, and I opened my eyes. It was 4AM.
What I meant to say about this photo, is that this was an entrance to the bridge.
My hair tinged a fiery red behind its blackness. This is that rite of passage, you know. I walked this bridge a decade ago with my best girlfriend from 6th grade when were were in New York together. We don’t talk much anymore, but this is the bridge that makes you feel like you really live in New York City.
This weekend, we decided to walk across the bridge towards home. What day was it? I’m not sure. I guess we’re clinging to this city despite it being ephemeral for everyone. I hazily watched the remnants of a couple’s engagement proposal. And the summer dances by, leaving us in the midst of almost-winter as we walk towards dusk. The sun was setting. I was drunk on too-strong mezcal habanero something-or-other. “That’s just so like you,” they always say about my choosing that kind of drink. “I like my alcohol like I like my men,” I used to retort. No one man should have all that power.
What I meant to say about this photo, is that there are always beginnings waiting when you arrive at endings.
“A thing that is falling apart struggles to hold itself together,” writes Traci. “Water spilling from its copper container, for example.”