It's one of those nights where I can't go to bed. What if something happens and I miss it? Right, something very exciting and earth-moving is about to occur in the middle of my half-lit, empty apartment. I'm avoiding the silence, the inevitable staring up at the dark ceiling with my arms crossed behind my head, patiently watching sleep's evasive tendencies. That quiet; that stillness, heavy with thought; half-formed identities winding their ways across the cracks in the ceiling; lines of poetry weaving internal rhyme and caesura, promising to be there in the morning to be written, but always escaping to somewhere just beyond grasp like a dream you forget to remember while brushing your teeth.
Jill and I adventured up the hill to Safeway to buy chocolate chips (and juice) at 10:30, talking self-defense, hop-scotching over puddles due to gaping holes in the soles of my shoes. Adventuring down, we spoke of fasting and of prayer.
Something I've just realized while staring up at the Christmas lights strung around the living room, the cheap lighting solution you can only get away with in your apartment until you're twenty-four and then the judgment will come raining down, is that I always have the perfect sentences to say when I'm being inauthentic, but I can't string two words together when I'm actually trying to be honest. I always have the right answer. Fuck the right answer. I want sincerity.
We bruise so easily.