shell

I've been so indulgent during my holiday break. I have slept in until 8:00 most mornings, sometimes even 8:15. Of course, I'm not really getting extra sleep because I am also staying up much later than normal watching more television than normal. Actually, I never watch television at my apartment partially due to the fact that I do not have a television. That is not true. I have a television. My father found one next to a dumpster, dragged it back to his place, tried it out, and, although no picture came up, assumes that it probably still works. So. I have a television. It sits in the corner, facing away from me, contemplating its existence. I, too, do the same. In my case, however, replace "contemplating its existence" with "eating plain oatmeal while listening to white noise to block out the techno beats coming from upstairs." Upstairs is so foreign to me. Upstairs might as well be a mythical Nordic island inhabited by elves and goblins.

Let me stand up for one g_ddamn second, walk around, and come back to the computer to see if I have anything at all left within this shell of a human to write.

I could write about my exes! But some of you might like that a little too much, in all its painful glory. I will not give you that satisfaction! Plus, if you can't say something nice...

Yesterday afternoon I took two long (long considering the well-below freezing temperatures) walks through the park and almost slipped on the ice twice. Or three times. I can't remember, but I do remember I didn't fall. I kept walking and saw what I think was supposed to be a snowman or maybe a modern art sculpture inspired by a modern artist whose name I do not know because one of my biggest regrets in life is that I didn't study art history. Oh, but then where would I be if I had studied art history? I'd probably be even colder and poorer and hungrier than I am today. But only by a little bit.

My walk was nice. Nice is the best word I can use to describe it. Language is limited. Language can't describe the virginal blue sky, only touched by a lone bird who worried me, who turned me maternal, who made me wish I had a nest just big and welcoming enough for the now absent sparrow. Language doesn't reveal to you the shock of the snow capped peaks sticking their head out of the restless clouds, clouds which were as absent as the sparrow within seconds. Language is a crutch at best, dangerous at worst. The danger is that it tricks you into thinking you've experienced what it tells you. But it will always just be the finger pointing at the moon. Our legs aren't painted on with words. They are flesh and blood and bones and desirous to walk, to wander, to not slip and fall.