Then, after walking home in a bit of a haze and meeting up with one of my favorite people in Bton, I stumbled into my house and fell down on my bed. I looked out the window and just was. Not critically thinking or avoiding myself through fiction or feeling bad about not doing enough work.
I had a headache. My feet were cold. The light was the kind of pale light in winter that lets you know 'this is evening now; this is what counts for the time before darkness'. No one walked by and the wind blew. I lay on the bed and imagined something, and that something led down a path that led to sleep.
There is something so invigorating about just being a biological, physical being. Not thinking about the whys and wherefores, but just feeling the senses. Knowing the pain of my sinusitis, curling my feet under corduroy, tensing at the cold inside the house.
Feeling and knowing what it means.
This is not the house where you sleep.
2 comments:
I fell asleep in your bed one afternoon back in Ann Arbor many years ago. It was spring or summer. Do you remember? That nap still stands out in my memory as one of the best I've ever had.
i remember walking around, and i think i was drinking an italian soda
and you were wearing a bright skirt, flowery or somethin...
that was a particularly good day
particularly
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