cold wash cycle

    On these yawning evenings I think about how we fuck up when we try to live other lives, narratives that don't belong to us. When we try to grab the threads we were not born with, we are miserable. I am slowly learning big lessons. I create mottos to plant them in my brain. I talk to my dad about religious differences over a very nice and pricey meal, I watch him and his girlfriend silently disagree, I watch them become awkward, and then come back to their normalcy. I think of my  soul friend in Portland who is taking pictures and feeling out the streets, probably smoking, I am sure she says something shining and layered to at least 5 people a day. I am thinking about my best friend, who is at a wedding, and whether the wedding party will see the way he illuminates spaces around him or whether they will just see how handsome he is. I am thinking about my guilt. How it grows in a myriad of small seeds throughout the day. I try to avoid hurting my knees to sew them but my body knows patterns I wasn't aware of developing. I am thinking about my sister. Her very esoteric and burning hands and all the materials they've morphed: duct tape, yarn, paper, paint, ukelele strings, the ears of strangers. I am thinking of my little brother and his incredible history that weighs heavy and wise and I wonder what his shoulders feel like sometimes. I am thinking about my nieces who have the most interesting syntax. I am thinking about my oldest brother who clicks with me at the most unforeseeable times and it feels like an entrance to a wall most people don't see. I think about my ears, obsessive. I think about my eyes that scan and take everything in. I consider a decision to be kinder to myself, to allow these sponge-like phases to come and go. I consider opening my mail as soon as I get it but that's less likely to occur. I am thinking about love. And the spirit. And how much of my self itches for an answer and how some days it feels so simple as to feel silly I keep asking. But I inquire in the form of books, strangers on the bus, and opening my fear and pride, perusing them like old texts that should be respected. I think about love.