Days pass in great swathes of knowing. The knowing that we usually crave. Today, it struck me that I have arrived.
I know where I’ll find the left over handkerchiefs from yesterday and where I can pick up daily doses of self-flagellation. I know the songs waiting for me over souvenirs I have collected and the words sliding from my consciousness into sleep. I know how the lather falls across my arm and down my elbow and how to reach the yellow threads that knit themselves to wipe it off. I know the sunshine will pierce in from the right side of the vehicle and I will still not apply sunscreen. I know which books will still wait, and why I will watch them tucked away in places I decided. I know how insecurity will seep in and make itself comfortable in the crevices of minds that, under duress, fall gently like cotton table cloths over wood and lie flat, symbolically. I know that my mind will cozy itself in his thoughts and yet. I also know that my distracted consciousness will make small to-do notes when I am not looking, and fold them away into a space where oblivion is an acid. I know that my story will wait to get lost in the city of my mind.
I weave in and out of days, knowing where to look and what to find. That knowledge, I think that is part of the problem.