Keep Talking

There are things I miss about living upstate—like talking to myself. Or, you know, singing out loud in my car.

I miss that a lot.

But other things I miss are less obvious.

I miss stopping when I’m wallking and staring at the black, shimmering pavement. I miss walking slow through the blacktop slush, hearing the soft noise my heels make on the stoned, muddy earth.

I do miss talking to myself. You can’t do this in the city without acting crazy. That’s why they invented blogs.

And I look down at my mid-twenties hands, now, just now, admitting they are in their mid-twenties. And if no one was around, I’d gasp: Because here, in the aluminum lime-light of my computer screen, I see taut veins and wirey fingers, and I write what I would never, ever say.

I’m getting older, and I have more and more to say; I have less and less to talk to.

I thought about this as I trudged through the soft, warn away grass, and I said little phrases aloud to myself. Then I came home, curled up in the covers, and hid my hands under the pillows until morning.


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