thejunipertree (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
thejunipertree) wrote2006-01-28 07:24 pm
thejunipertree) wrote2006-01-28 07:24 pm
(no subject)
It's January, with weather like early spring. An hour ago, I stood outside on the step with two good friends and flailed my arms wildly over my head, singing madly. Singing badly of dancing and cats and dancing cats. I tried to convince Joanna to do her Chewbacca impersonation, but she refused me, leaning against the glass doors and laughing.
This brain of mine is changing, I can feel it weakly wiggling its feelers out into the open. A different form then it used to be, this one is quieter and more likely to pause before action. Less quick to anger. I run into people I know and have nothing to say to them. It pains me in strange ways that I couldn't possibly verbalize, this odd dissociation from who I used to be. Faces that I loved so deeply and earnestly are now a small shrug, inconvenient blips on the radar. Most of the time, I'd rather stay silent then speak. So silent I will stay.
I form plans, plotting feverishly into the night when I should be insomniac sleeping. College preparation. Part-time work. Growing my hair as long as it will go. A new slipcover for the ugly living room chair. New tattoos. How many earthworms would fit in a pickle jar. I fret and turn over, disturbing a landslide of warm cat bodies. I hide under the pillows and let the fan blow gently across my legs. Sleep. Sleep doesn't go gently into that good night. Four hours a night during the week is a miracle, which chops my words into a hash of nonsense and makes my vision fuzzy on the edges.
It's a constant amazement, this life of mine.
This brain of mine is changing, I can feel it weakly wiggling its feelers out into the open. A different form then it used to be, this one is quieter and more likely to pause before action. Less quick to anger. I run into people I know and have nothing to say to them. It pains me in strange ways that I couldn't possibly verbalize, this odd dissociation from who I used to be. Faces that I loved so deeply and earnestly are now a small shrug, inconvenient blips on the radar. Most of the time, I'd rather stay silent then speak. So silent I will stay.
I form plans, plotting feverishly into the night when I should be insomniac sleeping. College preparation. Part-time work. Growing my hair as long as it will go. A new slipcover for the ugly living room chair. New tattoos. How many earthworms would fit in a pickle jar. I fret and turn over, disturbing a landslide of warm cat bodies. I hide under the pillows and let the fan blow gently across my legs. Sleep. Sleep doesn't go gently into that good night. Four hours a night during the week is a miracle, which chops my words into a hash of nonsense and makes my vision fuzzy on the edges.
It's a constant amazement, this life of mine.
no subject