I wake as Boro Park wakes. The bakery across the street is opening its doors, as that chocolatey babka wafts up to the window. Or, at least, I'd like to imagine that this is cause of morning. Usually, though, I've exhausted my ability to sleep. There is only so much unacknowledged work a brain can do before it seeks appreciation. When I'm awake we work in tandem: Arms clutching, eyes darting, legs running.
This morning they're quick.
We throw on the bare-clothing-necessity, feeling antsy.
I'm a firm believer that the soundtrack of my life will be made up of songs I already know. This morning, as the grey sky glared down at me; both angry for my early intrusion and bitter from yesterday where I paid it no mind, The Weepies whispered about how "The World Spins Madly On" in my ear. But I don't need the music to remind me that my life, alone, is irrelevant to the universe. Robin Williams passed away yesterday and we flick terms like "suicide" around, as if our tongues can justify such unhappiness. As if our tastebuds could understand what ceasing would be like. I think I know I don't want to die because I still want to taste tomorrow.
This morning, my daily Note from The Universe completely contradicted the calming quality of yesterday's mantra: "You are exactly where you're supposed to be." While I take all of these notes and horoscopes with a grain of salt, I think we open ourselves up to them most when we feel lost. With this giant gap in my world, between Columbia ending and my school year beginning, this month is full of reflection. And time to write. Which is both desired and desperation. No one knows the thoughts you hide quite like your brain does. So maybe I'm feeling a little lost. And maybe the universe, with all its wisdom isn't helping.
"So much more awaits you, Melissa. There'll come a day when you look back at where you've been and where you now are and call these your "warm up years."
You're so cute,
Is this meant to be comforting? Because this morning, all I want is a clue. My tea stash is dwindling, post-its piling up, and I've painted ten evil-eyes on my fingernails. Maybe this will ward off the devil. Or see something I cannot. Maybe I can channel the dormant wisdom that nips at my fingertips. And maybe they can say something I haven't yet.
Because I'm running out of words enough to keep my brain going, this morning.
I'm sure Boro Park wouldn't mind if I went back to bed.
But I would.
This is Me:
My name's Melissa. I'm the girl with her hands in her journal.