Today is February 4, 2015. I am alive and well.

I have nine minutes to write something with weight. After that, it is time to get ready for work at the library.

Maybe I will write something light, something that can enter my ear, leave an imprint of sound, and then wander to the next room which is silent. The carpet needs the large sound of a vacuum cleaner. Today, I will not vacuum. Today, I will not invite anyone over. A person would sneeze and have to leave, the bottom of their soles thick with cat hair.

My soul settles on my head like a large soft summer hat. My long black hair remains visible. I am thinking of cutting my hair like one thinks to remove flowers from the top of the cake, making it lighter. My curls might have an easier time curling if they weren’t left with extra weight–the weight of long hair.

My soft summer hat is sweet in color, a pale purple. I will wear jeans and a white t-shirt with Converse sneakers after I get off work. To work, I will wear jeans and a black t-shirt with no hat and    boots. My heavy boots keep me in the library. I cannot float amidst the stack of books. I don’t want to float. I want to put the meditation book in its spot–294.34435, C4518h. There is a right spot for everything. I have learned to find the right spot in the library.

Outside the library, I drift at times, missing the chance to sit and dream from a spot that guarantees me purple skies with streaks of red; guarantees me the sight of an elephant on a leash, being pulled by a young girl with a black Mohawk, her smile as wide as my open door.


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