April 19, 2004
Shy
I can only hear the sounds of the trains very late at night or very early in the morning, when I am stirred from dreams by the sounds of their sirens warning drunk students off of the tracks. I'm sure they're traveling mid-day, but not in Oxford, not in my head.
There is a quiet resolution stealing across me as this semester comes to a close. I mark my progress at this university by the number of novels I have read, gold stars. Two if I enjoyed it. In my bookshelf I keep my life, and I am comforted by the fact that there will always be something I haven't read, something I'll likely die without having read.
In Heaven, I don't want to have to give up spending four hours curled up in a comforter, eyes aching with the effort of reading too-dense prose. I don't want to have read it all, I want to take my time with books and life.
There's a chance all of this certainty might slip away from me. There's a chance that my trusts are misplaced or placed too readily. Do I have to wonder if Mike and I are going to share a computer room? Do I have to wonder if he'll let me have too many shelves full of books and joint-worn action figures?
Maybe I'll have my own room. Maybe I'll need two by then, paper backs like greedy children, taking up space and demanding attention.
I'm surprised by reflection. I like to take a moment outside of what I would consider closest to happiness as my now can afford. Sometimes I just want to look at it, stop my own gesturing forward, shut-up the words in my jaw and the desperate motions of my eyes, flickering, blinking, coy. I see myself as more than I am, and less.
astera at 11:51 p.m.