green walls, milk tea, room nine

She didn't wear a name tag. I told her I wanted to deposit those cheques into my chequing account. Then I gave her my bills and she went stamp, stamp, stamp. “You want to pay this 59 cents?” she asked, about my gas bill. She was pretty, and I tried not to look at her. I tried to find other places to look at and there weren’t many places except for the numbers on my bill and the green wallpaper. All the time I took note of how my mind danced around. This mind, I can’t make sense of it. She gave me my cash with both hands.

Then I walked over to Queen’s Patisserie and bought an iced milk tea.

Then I wrote, and produced this unpolished paragraph:

All can crumble in one moment. The more I write about crumbling the more real it is. But I can’t convince myself that things are like before yesterday. My throat is bleeding and all I can do is sit back. Times like this, I can pinpoint the exact location of Room Nine within the framework of this universe. Yet I can’t even see inside Room Eight or Room Ten, though surely they exist and on most days they are occupied, like right now.

Then the pizza boy rang the bell. My brother paid by credit card and asked the guy if he should write the tip in the bill. The guy answered something ambiguous. My brother wrote the tip in the bill. I told my brother next time he should write the exact amount on the bill and give the guy a concrete tip.

see colour!

For the first time in a long time I completed two writing sessions in one day.

After work, I went to the mall to pick up bubble tea, got home, and scribbled away. I feel quite completely at myself. I just have to say that I'm at myself and I'm totally here. My soul colours in this blank that is my body. On good days, when I'm so completely at myself, the colours run beyond the line, which is completely okay.

While working on "Sadness and Other Circles", I produced this stringy paragraph, one of several paragraphs I created today:

It feels like this. You take the next step before the next step appears and you land solidly and you take the next step and you land solidly again. I was singing like myself. I sing best when I stand an inch above the ground. Even better when I turn away from the screen (for I have remembered the lyrics) and I just focus on the door and sometimes the waitress is there early, watching me, waiting for me to finish, and I imagined she was happy for me. It also feels like this: I can sing any song and I can sound good like the real me. Pick a song with a great rise and dip. Pick something melancholic. Pick something that puts a sunroof in your heart. Pick something fast. And I thought I would never recover from the hurt in my throat!