Thirty-One: Weeks Thirty-Six & Thirty-Seven
Days two hundred and forty-six through two hundred and fifty-nine
Welcome back to Thirty-One, the project where I attempt to write something every day for a year. If you missed any previous issues, you can find them here.
Day Two Hundred and Forty-Six (December 28th) Voicemails are echoes of loved ones long gone. How many ghosts do you hold in your hands? Day Two Hundred and Forty-Seven (December 29th) Carl, my youngest goldfish, is finally starting to change colors. As a juvenile, he was almost entirely grey. A few weeks ago, his belly went white, and his fins took on a faint orange tinge. The orange is now becoming more saturated. In the right light, his chin and gill plates take on a yellow tint. Carl’s a late bloomer, so I have a soft spot for him. He’s small and dull compared to the others, but I know he’s only taking his time. I can’t wait to see what he becomes. Day Two Hundred and Forty-Eight (December 30th) Pain is loud when it writhes within the body, clawing at your insides, begging for attention. See me, it shrieks. I am not an afterthought or a thing to be brushed aside. I am you. Day Two Hundred and Forty-Nine (December 31st) I don’t know if the milk was causal or coincidental, but something is indeed rotten in the state of Denmark. (Denmark, in this instance, being my stomach.) Day Two Hundred and Fifty (January 1st) The wheel completes another turn, and we find ourselves back at the beginning. Day Two Hundred and Fifty-One (January 2nd) Songs bring up memories like scents of old scenes. Press play. Inhale. Past and present existing in the same moment. Day Two Hundred and Fifty-Two (January 3rd) It’s just after eleven at night, and I leave the warmth of my bed to go to the toilet. With only my lava lamp illuminating my bedroom, my eyes are used to darkness. I don’t turn the light on in the bathroom, but the window lets in an ambient glow. The moon is dim, and it’s mostly dark outside, but a warm light emanates from my neighbor’s window. In the distance between us, the silhouette of a palm dances beneath a gentle rain. When I return to bed, I can no longer see the neighbors’ light or the swaying palm, but the sound of the rain remains. Day Two Hundred and Fifty-Three (January 4th) You’re so selfish. Am I selfish, too for not wanting to be around you? Day Two Hundred and Fifty-Four (January 5th) Making bread is like a magic trick. Your hands soften the dough, and the dough softens your hands. Whatever you were feeling before you began kneading disappears into the realm of unimportant things. Dough falls apart before it comes together. The shaggy and ragged mass sticks to everything, clinging to anything other than itself. But the comfort of your fingers coming and going like waves eventually smoothes the rough edges and brings forth something whole. Day Two Hundred and Fifty-Five (January 6th) I want to be a forest, to know what it feels like to contain an entire universe within myself. Day Two Hundred and Fifty-Six (January 7th) Everything dies eventually, and then it dies a little more, breaking down and down and down and down until the only option remaining is to become living once more. Day Two Hundred and Fifty-Seven (January 8th) The tide is out. I’m waiting for it to return. Day Two Hundred and Fifty-Eight (January 9th) Late nights like fever dreams burn away the burdens of the day. Day Two Hundred and Fifty-Nine (January 10th) The wind has been constant lately. I enjoy listening to it explore outside my windows while I snuggle, safe and warm, within my home.
I’m offering this project for free, but if you’d like to support me (and get access to our poetry club), consider subscribing. That would be cool.