The Authentic Life

When she wanted to do something, she dreamt of doing it all the way. Extremities were her thing. Her mind floated away from her and landed on conclusions both distant and naive. A new yoga mat, for example, meant daily sessions of downward dog and child's pose set to Gregorian chants. A future of matcha tea and life on a mountaintop where she would be closer to reaching nirvana. All of this she imagined as she smiled at the corner her rolled mat leaned against far more often than it was ever used.

Such ideas were what her life was made of but never got past. They were like the boxes of sample-chocolates she enjoyed sifting through to find her favorites but would never go back to the store for more of.

She wanted to experience everything--but either lacked the perseverance or got bored too easily to expound. Instead, she collected these ideas and put them in jars--set them where she could see them on shelves of half finished books and other objects of high-intention. Her place marked in the third section of Sartre's lecture with a drawing from the last boy she imagined could be her soulmate. All of these things were a showcase of what she did not quite have, or in some cases, did not have at all--the possibilities comforting her nonetheless. She knew that these things existed. And not only that, but she had options--so many that sometimes it felt like enough. Still, if Sartre was right, she had realized before abandoning the book--if Sartre was right, she was fucked.

Doing It

Have you ever noticed that it's often the people who don't cling to the idea of it that end up going through with it? I guess they don't have time to cling. They just do it.

Paper Fan

She loved watching things progress--situations unfold as if they were intricate designs on the paper fan she wafted in front of her eyes. She never knew what she got out of predicting the outcome...maybe she liked that it felt like a secret, and it always made her smile, anyway.

Head On The Ground

She thought too much--
about what other people might think,
about the possibility of doing the wrong thing and ruining all future opportunities,
about what would happen if she acted on her impulses.
She didn't live in this world. She lived in her head.

Dark

Her spirit animal was a bat and it suited her.
She preferred things dark and cave-like.
She reveled in days spent in bed--lights out and curtains drawn.
It was better to listen to music and read and research things she was interested in while wrapped in blankets and propped up on pillows.
She left only for cups of coffee--wandering from bed to kitchen and back again in black lace underwear.

It could get quite late before she felt the night coaxing her outdoors--but it was something she loved. The ritual of it. The stinging bath, too-strong drinks and sweet perfume of it. The first step out the door and the noises she followed.
Anticipation and mystery were cloaked in this darkness she traveled through.