breakfast in bed; salads for six

there’s comfort in feeling you have a place that you belong, a place that you go. like work, like another house,
where the sweeping up feels more a gesture of goodwill. what can i say, i
am great at the interim. at borrowed clothes, and the morning routine
that speaks of dual lives. at half a home there, not mine, and half a
home here, mine, my personal museum of sentimental artifacts, rations
for the work day, scents. i love it here and yet there, existence is
light.

things in order. shelves for all my books. sentimental objects
discarded. intention and purpose unencumbered by objects. as if that
were possible.

i used to think that without these things, i’d have no sense of who i
was and so am, history and memory would be displaced and things would
fall apart. it’s the fear that’s kept me living alongside 10 year old
journals and 20 year old books; that without these to light the way i’d
lose all sense of what’s important. it’s possible that what was
important isn’t quite so these days.

i purchased another pair of shoes. used, for the patina. i will be
forever restless. this is the most peaceful i’ve been in awhile. it’s
been six nine months.

—Anonymous