second nature
I realized the other night as I tried to begin a new book that I couldn't concentrate. I kept reading the same sentence over and over again on the first page, because I was thinking about the settled in feeling I was finally-after 14 months in my current living situation-having for my home.
It was one of those moments when you walk down the dark hallway, cool boards under your feet, and flip the lights on, reaching directly for the switch, not having to paw at the wall like a blind man. You don't even think about it anymore, the ease of navigating the window latch, admiring how smoothly it glides open, how foreign that feels after a hand crank widow, or an old heavy double paned window, fitted into a setting; a window that was replaced as you too were in time replaced.
You don't notice anymore the way the breeze can blast through the window, dispelling the day's stale air that you were not able to sigh away. Your exhales were a contribution to little more than stale air in a city scape; a personal smog. Daydreams extolled as exhaust laps from a car into the stream of air; the tide pulled from the building's shore.
How does a bird know how to fly? Instinct alone? Maybe moving into another new house was instinct. Going through the motions.
It is days later since these thoughts and I just finished the papers that go with that book that I had a hard time concentrating on. It wound up being sad and lovely (albeit Of Mice and Men-ish in one of its characters)
It is funny how homework has become like the house to me, second nature, and I don't have to think about it as much anymore. I wonder if I will miss it when I graduate. Not the deadlines, or the forced readings, just the strenuous mental workout. Probably not.
I am tired as hell and stiff. I fell asleep at my desk for a few minutes, just long enough to be sore when I opened my eyes 30 minutes later. I forgot to proof read the part of my paper that I was typing when I fell asleep. I am sure that I will be greeted with 42 rows of t's when I finally do reread it. More later, when thoughts make sense.
It was one of those moments when you walk down the dark hallway, cool boards under your feet, and flip the lights on, reaching directly for the switch, not having to paw at the wall like a blind man. You don't even think about it anymore, the ease of navigating the window latch, admiring how smoothly it glides open, how foreign that feels after a hand crank widow, or an old heavy double paned window, fitted into a setting; a window that was replaced as you too were in time replaced.
You don't notice anymore the way the breeze can blast through the window, dispelling the day's stale air that you were not able to sigh away. Your exhales were a contribution to little more than stale air in a city scape; a personal smog. Daydreams extolled as exhaust laps from a car into the stream of air; the tide pulled from the building's shore.
How does a bird know how to fly? Instinct alone? Maybe moving into another new house was instinct. Going through the motions.
It is days later since these thoughts and I just finished the papers that go with that book that I had a hard time concentrating on. It wound up being sad and lovely (albeit Of Mice and Men-ish in one of its characters)
It is funny how homework has become like the house to me, second nature, and I don't have to think about it as much anymore. I wonder if I will miss it when I graduate. Not the deadlines, or the forced readings, just the strenuous mental workout. Probably not.
I am tired as hell and stiff. I fell asleep at my desk for a few minutes, just long enough to be sore when I opened my eyes 30 minutes later. I forgot to proof read the part of my paper that I was typing when I fell asleep. I am sure that I will be greeted with 42 rows of t's when I finally do reread it. More later, when thoughts make sense.
Comments
I can't think of anything helpful that doesn't sound glib, so I offer my best hopes that your thoughts now make sense and that, a week later, you're not still typing the backspace key on t's.