I don’t know what this is? but it was time to make something and share it.
“WHAT IT IS”
I eat. I make strawberry donuts glazed with cream cheese, and I eat half the batch. I dip pretzels in the leftover frosting and lick my fingers clean. I pull on my paint-splattered cross-trainers and break into a run, wiping sweat off of my iPod and trying not to count the squares of sidewalk. I watch TV shows chronicling inexplicably optimistic Midwesterners trying to “make it” in New York. I sit at my parents’ piano, repeating bass lines and scribbling couplets until I have forgotten where I am. The first week at my new job, I scrub down the walls, brew coffee for the baristas, and operate the register with the relentless cheer of a lobotomized school spirit mascot. By the end of a shift, my voice is hoarse and my cheeks ache from holding a smile. I drive to my favorite cemetery to read fifty pages of something funny and not laugh. I sneak gulps of whiskey from plastic bottles in the afternoon and rearrange the piles in my room. Once or twice, I meet up with friends, people who know which questions not to ask. I avoid the coffee shops and sidewalk corners where recognizable faces gather. I drive aimlessly. I lose myself on familiar trails. I do not talk about the ghosts.