A Fool’s Book
I hope it’s a good day where you are. I hope it’s your kind of good day. I hope your brain hasn’t unraveled into the type of puzzle that is a million pieces, where you lay it out on a table and leave it for weeks to follow, because that’s how long it takes to put together. All the while knowing that one bump would put it over the edge and one million pieces will be spread across a dimly lit floor. Ignore the risk of losing a single piece that will leave you with the unforgivable feeling of 999,999 pieces. I know you have those days, because I have those days.
I play out my daily routine. Resist my persistent depression that tells me to keep the blinds closed and spend my morning in bed watching tv, but against my own will, I open the blinds. Draw the curtains back, tucking them behind a hook that you once securely fastened to the wall. I try to ignore that, I’ll pretend I did it myself. Pick up after the mess that put me to sleep. A half emptied bottle, ashes spilled on our sheets, and turn off the muttering voices on the television. I’m clean. I take A walk from here to the bathroom sink which feels like a ten mile hike. Teeth brushed and face washed. A cup of coffee to brew. We drank coffee together. It was like a hobby for us. Now I drink it to avoid breakfast, force a workout so my body can feel better than my brain, and as an aid to shower so I can play dress up and pretend pretty. Bag, keys, phone, door locked, and I’m off.
Don’t let me bore you. This morning I looked in the mirror because sometimes I forget the body I live in, but on certain days I don’t really see myself. Sometimes it’s a nasty wide eyed, droopy monster looking back. Sometimes it’s a pretty lady with eyelashes too long and cheeks too rosy. Most of the time it’s someone who looks normal, whatever some part of me thinks is normal, that’s who looks back at me and I politely nod because I don’t know her. It’s a boring struggle. So I’ll tell you, I am boring. Don’t pity me for my melodramatic way of words. I’ll tell you just the way I tell everyone else who cares to play nice by asking, I’m doing just fine. We’re all doing just fine. And just fine is okay. Okay enough to share at least. This is a story of someone doing just fine.
By 9 am I’ve already missed a sunrise, birds singing that song they do every morning- I like to think they’re rehearsing for a final performance, one I’ll never get to watch- I’ve missed the run that the man training for a marathon already ran, I missed the first cigarette you would have smoked by now, I missed the morning traffic jams, and the 5am news. But this is the time I catch. It's The 9am Catch. My drive is a fool’s drive. It’s straight on the freeway, a bridge, and then a few right turns. The bridge is my favorite part. Sometimes, when it isn’t too busy, I close my eyes and count to 5. But on the rare occasion that I cross it at night, I’m sure to keep my eyes wide open. Sometimes ghost people peek over the edge, or the invisible man stands dead center and my heart drops because I never press my breaks and every time ends up just fine. The man is somehow always there and then never there just in time. It happens more often than I would admit, to anyone besides you that is. To my surprise, and probably yours, I appreciate the ghost people, because they keep me company when I’m lonely. And their games are just for fun, for my fun and for their fun, and maybe for your fun now that you’re here. I would miss them if they were gone.
It’s just another day. In the office my footsteps are silent. I appreciate the patterns on the rug; I count on seeing them every day. I count on counting. The rings I step on and the pedals I touch.
*let me say. Just let me tell you. Hear me loud. Clear. The moon and the stars, the sun, it’s not there for you. Nor is it there for me. It’s just there, because it is. Just like you and just like me.