As I type

As I type, I have three bottles of shampoo to my left and three bottles of conditioner to my right. They were on sale at CVS, and I bought them on my way home from a busy day at Stevenson. It was a highly productive day, but I could not stay for the last session as I was not feeling too well. It started when I was choking on broccoli. I’m used to choking as it happens multiple times every day. I was choking for a few minutes, and I tried hard to block tears that I was shedding as a result of the choking. There were people around, and I still feel terribly insecure and ashamed. I know it’s no fault of mine, but I still don’t feel too great about it. And now, I’m putting it all out on a blog. An oxymoron, I suppose.

As I type, I’m listening to Michael J. Fox’s memoir about his Parkinson’s disease. It gives me strength to hear these consuming stories. I’m heavily into trauma theory. It’s all I have ever known, it feels, but I manage to smile, still. I think my smile is induced by divine intervention.

As I type, I experience the scent of the shampoo on my left and conditioner on my right, every twenty minutes. When I do, I close my eyes and imagine the world is perfect; my world is perfect. Then I open my eyes and realize I’m alone in my studio. Nothing is perfect about my world. Nothing. I’m okay with that.

As I type, I want to disappear like a thin screen of fog. Like dew in the presence of the sun. Like a non-speaking character in a great tragedy.

As I type, I want to smile at the new dawn that awaits me.

I think I still can.