Honey From The Rock

As I get closer to endings, space becomes more and more full for me. There is a certain significance to the angles of this desk’s corners, the tilt of the picture, the colors of the few dark reds. Sometimes I stare at it, imprinting it on my brain because I am sentimental and it is still very much imprinted on my heart. And this sentimental girl can only take so much. So much crumbling and breaking, daily decay of my created order.   The constant slide into chaos, the constant ending of good things. I wash dishes every day and then I eat again. I arrange and center, lighting candles, ‘creating the atmosphere’ I secretly whisper to myself, knowing this joy too childish to share in seriousness. And the people fill the room, the smells fill the room, the candles flicker and beckon, but only to go out, be silenced, be absorbed by the old musty walls of the cold house. It ends and again I wash dishes, throw away spent candles, sweep the floor, and I am alone. The silence of a weary ...

This is the era of my life of coffee shops and dehydration. Nonprofessional clothing and flexible hours. Confusing Tuesday mornings for Saturday afternoons. Crying in the car for the realities I can’t face anywhere else. Sleep deprivation so acute I can't remember my mailbox number. Laughing until it hurts because we're high on the sweetness of college breaks. Roadtrips and chickfila and the crazy freedom of not having a job. Checking in every few days and then doing whatever makes sense, whenever I want. Playing at being domestic and then forgetting the stacks of dishes, consequences from the dinner party the night before. Buying Groupons and wearing perfume and feeling like a woman with a very small checking account. Listening to one song for hours on repeat just so I can write this paper and because it expresses my soul so accurately. Seeing the day change from today to tomorrow almost every night and hoping to be awake for only one more hour. NPR, paying bills, lipstick...