Oh Great Sights

Thinking outrageously, I write in cursive.
I hide in my bed with the lights on the floor.
Wearing three layers of coats and leg warmers,
I see my own breath on the face of the door.

I think I've used that quote from Sufjan before, but I like to repeat my stories. Most days, I talk so loud, because I don't feel like anyone is listening (if you're listening, sing it back, etc).

It feels like someone has placed my time in an envelope and then in a tiny, wooden music box with the spinning ballerina inside that an elephant munched down like circus peanuts. I can hear the music (I think it's someone singing Azure Ray or Death Cab for Cutie), and I know I have some time here somewhere for progress or change or positivity, but I would much rather just watch re-runs of Will and Grace and listen to old Relient K and never change from exactly the person who I am right now. This is how I am when I feel like this:

For the past few days, I have woken up in the perfect atmosphere to lay with someone else. It's just a little too warm and the sheets are slanted with morning sunlight that wakes me gently. Jack Johnson plays somewhere in the background: Bubble Toes, probably. My legs are tangled in sheets and pillows, though, not other legs; it's not an arm making my neck ache. I move free from fear of waking someone from their even breathing.

It isn't a person I miss. I think that's the scariest part of all. I don't want anyone specific there (here, I mean), and I don't know if I ever really have. I just like the evenness of matched breaths and my stomach on anyone's back. That's a paradigm that I always feel safe discussing.

It's funny when I ask myself if I'm happy. I am nearly certain that I am happy, and that I have always been happy, and that I will always be happy. I'm not joyous or ecstatic; these things take tequila... or other things that leave me waking up with regret, like Mr. Last-nameless from almost forever ago. This is always the second I know that I have not been in that Bohemian l.o.v.e. that just makes the world around you fuzzy and mushy like butter that your roommate left out of the fridge for an entire weekend.

I'm still believing that when I find that sort of extended happiness, I won't experience this car-towing espresso karmic whiplash that tries to handcuff me to some cat or Taylor Swift song. I'm not coming back. Those people are rocks and hard places, baby, and I have some control over the voices in my head. "The opposite of love is not hate. It's indifference," and I just don't/can't care anymore.

Oh, I am not quite sleeping.
Oh, I am fast in bed...

Is it March 14th yet?