The Night of March Tenth

This afternoon, in the café, I wrote from a weak mind, but empowered soul. Five shots of espresso left me lazy with haggard eyes. Most times nothing artificial will do the trick—and I find myself falling back on the reliable remedy of fresh air, pulsating streets, friendly foreigners and the triumphant discourse with males who, in mid-dialogue and mid-smile, remind me of how simple life was designed to be. Why do I avoid the hours when I confront these easily attainable external relations—why do I put off confronting the aids that will make my interior instantly feel rejuvenated? Is it for the sacrifice of happiness, so I have these words? Tonight I added a conversation with my mom, a home-cooked salmon filet and Calvino’s Invisible Cities to the mix, and I already feel more divine and determined. Yes, from the above, I sound like one irritatingly long fluctuating sigh. I came home and Allison told me to shut my insecurity up—that I sounded like every other banal female. She is right, and I knew this prior to. Maybe I continue just so I sound relatable or feel connected to the self-imposed constraints others suffer from? But that, too, is an aggravating explanation. My speech looks like a seesaw. The walls of my room look like the rosy cheeks of a lush and blushing female, heated by sensory pleasure or burning from embarrassment. I love when my room carries an angelic glow, like radiant cheeks just caressed and dusted with powered. It is the moments like these, with a candle burning, lights laced around the walls and the faint musical sounds stirring through the night when I wish I could remain drifting in my bedroom forever, and perhaps entertain a boy who has implicitly (though silently) decided to let himself be bored with me between the walls of my mystical world.