Overly personal ramblings and short stories on things consuming me.
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I spend the early summer watching reruns of King of the Hill and swimming in other people’s pools. In the afternoon, the sun hangs around forever, baking everything in an endless wave of heat and dust and shame. I try and keep cool by hanging out inside or drinking bad beers at bars with funky aesthetics and custom-crafted illustrations for their beer cans.
Fiction
+1
real, fake, and real again.
At night I dream of returning home from somewhere foreign. I’m not sure where I am: Seattle or Portland, the whole thing’s fuzzy. In this dream I am running from someone. I am all big conversations and repressed feelings.
Personal
In therapy we talk about endings and beginnings, read short stories that I’ve written, and ponder over when I’ll eventually stop coming. We are working towards a final project: a bit of writing in which I envision four variations of my self, split across the timelines, all meeting together for one conversation.
In the morning, wrapped in blankets and the warm safety of each other you ask me to marry you and, sheepishly I agree. This is not a proposal, at least in the traditional sense, but instead a conviction or admission of feeling.
You write music about your ex who left for San Francisco, hoping that with the right amalgamation of metaphor and meaning you can get him to apologize for things he never knew he did wrong.
