Filed under: self indulgence
Two cats, closed door, guest bed on my belly. Farthest from the lover’s pulsing electronic beats, traffic, undergrads yowling in heat. Its not quiet here, there is still the murmur of all of these things, a reminder that I am not alone. Never silent here; never alone here. Struggling to find peace while distracted and annoyed and frustrated and unfulfilled.
Some Thing of unknown shape is sitting on my diaphragm. That Thing with no substance, empty, waiting for its contents, waiting to wake up. The place where I kept passion. Withered. Killed off by paying bills, psychiatrist appointments, repetition, television. Between 16 and 25 I stopped aching with lust and burning for adventure and bleeding and exploding at every turn. I knit, write, ponder, plan, wait. For death? For stimulation?
I don’t tell my friends why I chose chemistry. I don’t tell them that I close my eyes and feel molecules careening through space, colliding, becoming something new and beautiful, or slowing, and twisting apart — from one becomes two. Beautiful in creation and entropy alike. Like us. Like we huge conglomerations behaving as minuscule puzzle pieces do. Falling apart and merging with another.
I don’t tell them this. They think I love the order. The units fitting into each other and reacting according to their rules.
They don’t know that I’m waiting to collide and become something new.
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