© Jack Amick, 2011.
Cups of coffee to make up for the sleep I missed because I had too many cups of coffee. A mind running over my schedule for the term and all the things I want to get done in the next year so I can transfer smoothly into university. The sound of my husband sleeping next to me. I run my fingers down his back, roll over, and slide out of bed.
Wrapped up in Mason’s oversized hoodie I stare myself down in the mirror. Hair in every direction and the type of crazy eyes I thought I’d left with early-twenties cocaine binges. It’s late. Later than I’m used to. But I’m up.
We’re all up in the air now. A new season, a new set of math and science courses, new ideas, new plots. Everything I know is a transition and I keep finding myself restless and angry as I search for solid ground. For quiet. For something to connect to.
In the morning I go running and everyone keeps their eyes down. Intentionally not looking at each other as we pass shoulder to shoulder on the sidewalk. Social media sites are filled with old friends and people I barely know all talking at once, but not to each other. I’m careening. So I shut down my Facebook account less than twenty-four hours after making it. I make motions to shut down other blogs and Twitter because mostly all they feel like are more eyes on sidewalks. More people near each other, but not together at all.
I’ll bury myself in textbooks and study halls. Long walks with Mason and lazy Sundays in bed. Paper and pens. Conversations over coffee. Texts to friends. Words posted up here to read, to absorb, to email me about, but not to comment on. Not to hit a “like” button that really only tells me you were here. The human digital equivalent of a dog pissing on a bush. I’ll keep locking eyes and smiling when I pass you on the sidewalk as you keep staring at your shoes.
