Like a map with a faded legend.
8.
I keep my tools in my car along with a spare tire and some sand for when the roads disagree with my car, a lover’s quarrel through the seasons I’m forced to interrupt, along with my briefcase and extra pens. When I lift the door and squint through the sun’s run-off energy, there’re pens amiss from a particularly rough drive in, and one’s broken, lying abandoned by the others near where the tire was this morning, spitting ink in some desperate attempt to be noticed by anything that could lend tape, or an escape. Careful to grasp all of the pieces, I grab the maimed pen first, then shoulder my day’s work and slamming the trunk’s door to ensure closure. It’s a new journey each day, the walk to the front door, new litter decorating the drab lines of the parking lot and leaves inconsolably throwing themselves to the ground at the idea of a party, friends, only to be trodden with a crunch most don’t take time to appreciate, and it helps prepare me for my schedule.
The pen’s last hope is to bleed over my palm and drip upon my pants, staining and alerting to it’s survival, even if it may be short lived. I’m struck with the idea of rushing to get to a tape dispenser because maybe for once I could save a life instead, and the ideas and memories that come with these new concepts are enough to give me a bitter outlook upon my day. My desk is farther away today and it’s a sign that consoles me in the loss of my pen, something so simple to save that caused the ruin of my mindset, that maybe it wasn’t meant to be, that it wasn’t supposed to live.
I can’t help but wonder if I’m supposed to live, too, as I cross the room to wash my hands to remove the evidence, shifting eyes rolling over the waves of human emotion wafting from people I don’t know, until I meet my own gaze in the mirror, and realize we, the girl and I, have the same eye color; my forehead pushes towards my reflection to get the image out of my mind, and I look up just in time to see our mouths greet each other. I hope from a simple phrase I don’t convey my struggles, but she smiles at my inane thoughts, and I’m okay for now.
The pen’s last hope is to bleed over my palm and drip upon my pants, staining and alerting to it’s survival, even if it may be short lived. I’m struck with the idea of rushing to get to a tape dispenser because maybe for once I could save a life instead, and the ideas and memories that come with these new concepts are enough to give me a bitter outlook upon my day. My desk is farther away today and it’s a sign that consoles me in the loss of my pen, something so simple to save that caused the ruin of my mindset, that maybe it wasn’t meant to be, that it wasn’t supposed to live.
I can’t help but wonder if I’m supposed to live, too, as I cross the room to wash my hands to remove the evidence, shifting eyes rolling over the waves of human emotion wafting from people I don’t know, until I meet my own gaze in the mirror, and realize we, the girl and I, have the same eye color; my forehead pushes towards my reflection to get the image out of my mind, and I look up just in time to see our mouths greet each other. I hope from a simple phrase I don’t convey my struggles, but she smiles at my inane thoughts, and I’m okay for now.