Sundays I listen to Coldplay and try to fit the right words into my mouth but they keep spitting themselves out cause they don't quite taste right and I'm left thinking it's all my fault for burning my tongue on my Indian leftovers earlier today, for setting the microwave timer for ten extra seconds because I like things better when they're hot even if it makes everything taste a little off for the rest of the day, even if it makes things harder to swallow for the rest of the week.
It's not just food. I think I was supposed to be born in the heart of an underwater volcano, meant to live among the ashes of the only things as self-destructive as humans. I don't get into the shower until I see the steam rise up out of the top, and I wear sunburns and tan lines proudly like they're not ominous heralds of skin cancer forty years down the road. At a time of year when my hands are constantly cold, I am missing the freckles that come with the sun like nothing else. I am missing the light on the balcony in Barcelona, and that time I squeezed myself up and held onto the railing til my heart was beating fast cause it was so high up, and how I would always climb up to the highest floor possible, to prove to myself I could.
I am also thinking of the south of France and of Colorado mountains for the first time, outside an airport's walls, since I was three. I am thinking, almost more fondly than of foreign lands, of navigating my own home from the driver's side and of the green canopies that lead to my friend's house and of jumping into the crystal cool water after running and those first few seconds underwater that take your breath away momentarily. I am thinking of the million infinities before then and how they will be filled and how sometimes you want something to come but just as badly as you want something else not to end before and, well, you can't have both.
I am thinking of today.
Sundays I listen to The Beach Boys and inspect my hair for split ends. I count back five months since I last had a haircut, but when I catch a glance of my reflection in the car door, it doesn't look like it's grown at all. Maybe a centimeter or two. Grow faster, I wish I could tell it, which is funny because I'm so used to telling everything else to slow down.
Sundays I listen to Led Zeppelin and to my sister asking me a question about math, a question whose answer I do not know. I listen to the sound of my own voice -- "ow" -- react to the pain in my joints and muscles and wish it away. There are pains I can shoulder but if I cannot run, so help me God...
Sundays I read back over the words I have taken hours to write, and wonder what representation of my life they offer. I think about all the things I wrote in my journal this past week, two weeks; more stripped down and list-like, are they more accurate? "Today was a good day, all things considered." I've written about late start mornings and vague unspecified (outside of my mind) "you"s I can't stop thinking about and how dysfunctional our statistics class is, but none of it's very eloquent and when I sit down to the computer all that comes out are older memories, anyway, tumbling from my fingers like ice cubes from a pitcher of lemonade on one of those hot summer days I'm talking about. I only miss some of them, and not the ones that are conjured up when I think of lemonade.
Sigh, sigh, sigh.
Blogging is hard because I rarely know what to say but I do know I'm done with this thing, whatever it may be. I think I'll go watch the Super Bowl now, and eat some guacamole.