Some Days

Sometimes the light goes gray.

Somedays, the clouds bunch together like flocks of pussywillow, and the sky hangs heavy with the moisture that refuses to let go.
Somedays I wrap a scarf around my neck and pretend I'm somewhere else, somewhere Northern, somewhere without dry heat, and sunburns in March.

And somedays I sit on this floral beige couch, wrapped in a scarf and wearing boxer shorts, and I just stare out at the sliding glass doors, and admire the way the overcast skies reflect in the golf course's fountain.
Then the air conditioning kicks in, and I dig my toes into the cushion on the other end of the couch, and sigh a little too loudly.



It's the kind of melancholy, soft-grey-colored day, that gives me a pounding head ache, and makes every second tick by in slow motion. I'm hypersensitive to the sounds of the creaky old air conditioner, the soft breaths of Winnie, on the couch across from me, of the minute cracks slipping out of my body as I twist and turn, in an effort to relax the tense muscles and bones.
It's the kind of day that makes me stare at the online school window on my browser until my sight blurs over, the kind of day that makes me berate myself as the window times out automatically and logs me off, work scarcely touched upon.

It makes me wonder.



What am I doing with this pathetic excuse of a life?



I've had a livestream tab open since 11 AM this morning: Adam Young of Owl City is going to do an announcement at 6 PM, EST. I've clicked over to it a few times today, but I mostly just keep it open.
I've been on this computer for roughly the entire day, and I've accomplished absolutely nothing.
Frankly, it's shocking how much time I could spend doing absolutely nothing.
It makes my stomach curl and my eyes ache, as the white layout of this page sends bright daggers through my retinas.

It's the kind of melancholy, useless day that makes me dig up old writings, makes me post ostentatious excerpts of unfinished stories.


"She is submerged in a haze of menial dullness; the daily trivialities that make her mundane existence's clockwork tick, so to speak."

I will forever regard that piece of writing as one of the most show off-y things I've ever written.


It's the kind of melancholy, dark-grey-colored day that makes me want it to pour. It makes me want to go running barefoot over hot asphalt, as the drops form perfect circles over it, and create that iconic scent that makes people think of summer, and bikes and cookouts and maybe even love. It makes me want to scream, to cry, to laugh, to let my hair get drenched and my shirt soaked through and my vocal cords rough and raw just so I can do something.
It makes me want to stand still and watch the cars drive through the intersections, smiling for no reason and probably looking like a homeless person.
It makes me want to go skipping through puddles and laughing, loud and carefree, with an underlying tone of desperation laced in.

That's it.
I'm desperate.

I blink, long and slowly, as I hear Winnie's claws scraping over the fabric over the couch. I sit here on a stranger's furniture and stare longingly out the window.
My eyes are sore, and the bright green of the small accumulation of Mountain Dew bottles, on the table next to me, pain my eyes.

The pseudo-silence of our tiny condo is almost disconcerting, but I revel in it, knowing the fragile calm will be torn to shreds once my family returns. And I kinda feel like going for a run, or taking a nap, or maybe just sinking into the couch until I don't exist anymore.

It's just that kind of day, I suppose.