Of our elaborate plans, the end

 

The days grow longer and I find myself sinking into the sleep of lethargy.  Walls seem to shrink and the air is stale in my lungs, producing a drowsy effect.  All I can do is sleep and hope tomorrow will bring something to wake me from my stupor.

She generally gave herself very good advice, though she very seldom followed it.

 

Went to the park with Katie today.  She brought mason jars and a tablecloth and it was lovely.  

And in the mirror she saw a fool

I wish I could shed this skin and take to the air in the form of a butterfly released from its cocoon, soft and strong and new.  Beautiful.  To be free is to be weightless, and vice versa.  This is the stuff of my daydreams.

Move along, there's nothing left to see

These summer days are beginning to string themselves together in my mind, a drowsy succession of iced coffees slurped with fat straws and dappled sunlight on sizzling pavement.  I've allowed myself to sink into a stupor, sprawling across my mattress in the middle of the day and thinking, I don't have to move if I don't feel like it.  Books have become my dearest friends, just like they used to be before I was swept away in the flurry of college.  I just finished my third novel in two weeks, Cat's Eye by Margaret Atwood.  Words wake up in my head and swim before my eyes, leaving me breathless and heady in their wake.  I have missed their presence in my life.

I take pictures of nothing in particular.  During golden hour I sometimes drag myself into the heat, braving the mosquitoes for that perfect snapshot.  The images that result are nothing special, yet they satisfy me.  I have created something that sets one day apart from another.  For me, photography has always served as a sort of visual journal, a way to make time stand still.  Every blade of grass and lonely dandelion holds a unique place in my heart, this summer.

On the metra to Chicago, alone

When I'm on the train I wonder things about the people around me.  Whether they are loved by someone, someone waiting for them. Who in their life has touched them and whispered sweet nothings into their ears.  It humors me to think that some of them are in between lives, escaping from a dead-end situation into the  hopeful unknown.
Sometimes I can feel their eyes on me when I look down, but I don't mind because I do the same thing when they aren't looking.  I pick at the skin around my fingernails and notice that my flesh has turned gray, like a rotting corpse.  Perhaps it is the stale light inside the train, or it could be that my painted exterior is finally chipping away.

I spend the day in Chicago, feeling very much like a ghost--or rather like I am being trailed by ghosts of people I would like to have with me. They are with me at every turn, reminding me how alone I am.  I feel cheated by them, until I remember that it is only I who am cheating myself.

The train ride home is pleasant. I close my eyes and let the dappled sunlight from golden hour dance on my exposed face, book in my lap, ignored.  I think I could live on a train and be perfectly content.