Hundreds of books, on shelves, tables and a few even still in fresh shipping boxes.
Notebooks, half-filled, strewn about with as much variety.
Arts and crafts supplies, canvases of different sizes and miscellaneous textured items seeping out from their attempted homes.
Media equipment, technology of different sizes and forms, a dozen planners barely used before being rejected.
Blankets and pillows, everywhere.
Artwork. Odd, psychedelic, original pieces. Paintings that make me feel raw or real. Both my own and other’s works as well.
Dozens of recycled jars holding herbs and dried flower petals.
Feathers and roses. Stones and candles.
Stuffed animals of all shapes and sizes.
Sleeping, purring kitteh babehs.
The creaking aches of this old family home and the noncommittal chimes in the breeze outside…
The trash needs to be taken out.
It’s something between a whistle and a grunt, the little snoring sound my grandmother’s Maltese makes while napping underneath her lounge chair.
The oxygen machine is groaning on in the corner and the chimes outside have become more lively in the wind.
We just had french toast, eggs and orange juice for brunch.
My grandma is playing one of her iPad games and just said, “oh you sonna-ma-bitch!”
She must have made a bad move.
Paxton the Maltese barked once but has gone back to his faint whistle-snoring.
Benji, grandma’s old poodle hasn’t flinched, sleeping on the big lounger right beside her.
My back hurts, right between my shoulders. I’m not sure how I tweaked it yesterday.
I need more yoga in my life.
It’s a different kind of quiet.
At night, everything seems somewhat muffled by the impending and saturating darkness out there, just beyond the artificial incandescent glow of civilized convenience.
Like the world is holding its breath, hoping that this intruder Night will pass by without noticing it.
The kitteh babehs keep mommy safe and she keeps them warm – and they keep her warm and the keeps them safe.
The darkness is given shape by the wind in the trees outside.
The house is still creaking.
The chimes blunted by dull paranoia.
Forgetting to be afraid of the unknown, probing its gaping possibility with tender, inquisitive nature.
Feeling the warm liquid pulse of life running up my fingers.
Noticing my edges dissolve back into the void…
My back still hurts. Bed time.