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terrysdiary:

Deepak Chopra at my Studio #2

terrysdiary:

Deepak Chopra at my Studio #2

Senses Writing I

I remember weighing myself and seeing my weight. I remember pulling the clear shower curtain back to give Kyle a kiss goodbye. I remember the man on the subway. I remember sitting on the sofa watching the Today show. I remember putting my boots on while I sat on the sofa. I remember taking a phone call with Madelyn while walking Butter. I remember putting Butter in her pen. I remember calling my father while walking to the subway. I remember getting a coffee and knowing that Dunkin Donuts wouldn’t accept my redemption card if I ordered a large coffee instead of a medium.

——————

I see the same pen as mine being used by someone else. I see a pink scarf. I hear the scrapping of pen on paper. I feel sweaty palms. I taste nothing. I smell nothing. I see my socks red line along the toe, which I never noticed before. I feel a cramp in my hand. I hear someone turning the page in their notebook. I hear it again. I see my shadow on the notebook. I feel my ass on the chair. I hear my own breathing. I hear someone clearing their throat. I feel a pain in my hip flexor. I hear a cough. I hear the air conditioning. I feel the carpet. I feel the back of the chair. I feel a tingling in my right foot.

——————

I remember setting my bike against the wall in the den. It was the only thing in the room. I remember taking a photo of it and sending a text to Kyle, “Black beauty has her own room now.” Black Beauty was the name of my bike, my prized possession. It was the most luxurious thing I owned. It had a purple hubcap in the back. That was the only color. The rest was black. I remember how safe I thought it was in the spare room, gently resting on the newly painted white walls. I liked it there. It was balancing almost precariously, but it was safe. Then, we decided that maybe the landing would be best….

——————

I see the glow of the city below. I see the fog rolling off the roof of the house onto the deck. I hear the howling of the wind as it rushes past the bathroom. I taste the toothpaste in mouth. I hear the 37 bus approach the stop sign at Clayton. I hear the bus stop, the brakes release. I hear the bus roll away, growing distant faster than normal. I see the amber light of my room cast shadows on the bumpy wall. I see my desk with its rough unfinished surface. I feel the sweatpants. I feel the heavy wool socks on my feet doing nothing to keep me warm. I feel the threads of my comforter. I feel the coolness of my as I slip into it. I see lights from the city below fighting to break through the fog. I see my bedside table with the gray memory box. I hear the occasional creak from the empty house downstairs. I feel the front logo of my shirt press against my shirt.

——————

It was a typical night. I was alone. The house was empty. The only thing that made this night any different from the rest was the fog rolling down Twin Peaks. I had recently moved into the apartment. I was still getting used to the temperature of San Francisco and tonight it was cold. I was on the verge of my teeth chattering. With toothpaste residue coating my lips, the taste still lingered on my tongue. I couldn’t believe how strong the wind was. I watched from my room, the fog roll off the roof. It tumbled down without a care. The lights from the city below fought to illuminate the growing blanket of fog. It was in this new city that I was set to build a life. In the city below, an office waited to house me during the day. There was a job waiting for me down there. There were nights of debauchery. There were cold, windy, foggy nights waiting for me down in the city below my new apartment. However, tonight my dimmed amber light cast shadows against an uneven wall. The city lights were weak. The day was ending. The job was done for the day. The bars were empty. Instead, wind was my companion. It filled the empty house, rushed below the front door, and whistled through the slated window panes in the bathroom. The 37 bus began its climb up Clayton. Tonight, it seemed further away than normal. The release of air from the bus brakes when it stopped was usually so loud, but tonight the sound was diminished by the encroaching Marin layer. I ducked into my small and oddly shaped closet. I reached into the darkness trying to find the lightbulb. I was still getting used to having to crawl into my closet just to turn the light on. Once I clipped the light on, I grabbed my thickest pair of socks. These were the socks that stood apart from the rest. When folded together, they were twice the size of other socks. I put them on my feet hoping they would keep me warm. I wasn’t used to the San Francisco weather and my heavy-duty socks weren’t working. Lights off, I slid into bed. The scratchy comforter from my mother was a new kind of cold. My body warmed the side of the bed that was unoccupied just seconds before. The howling wind was my white noise. It would chill me to the bone and comfort me as I adjusted to sleep. In the absence of real curtains, I stared out the windows into the glowing darkness. The house felt hollow, the bed felt empty. I didn’t know when any of my roommates would be home. I didn’t know when the fog would take full form, when the wind would stop. I didn’t know when I would finally fall asleep. I was suspended in the new dark. It was just me and the fog. Just me and the wind. An empty house filled with invisible companions. 

terrysdiary:

Deepak Chopra at my Studio #2

terrysdiary:

Deepak Chopra at my Studio #2

Senses Writing I

I remember weighing myself and seeing my weight. I remember pulling the clear shower curtain back to give Kyle a kiss goodbye. I remember the man on the subway. I remember sitting on the sofa watching the Today show. I remember putting my boots on while I sat on the sofa. I remember taking a phone call with Madelyn while walking Butter. I remember putting Butter in her pen. I remember calling my father while walking to the subway. I remember getting a coffee and knowing that Dunkin Donuts wouldn’t accept my redemption card if I ordered a large coffee instead of a medium.

——————

I see the same pen as mine being used by someone else. I see a pink scarf. I hear the scrapping of pen on paper. I feel sweaty palms. I taste nothing. I smell nothing. I see my socks red line along the toe, which I never noticed before. I feel a cramp in my hand. I hear someone turning the page in their notebook. I hear it again. I see my shadow on the notebook. I feel my ass on the chair. I hear my own breathing. I hear someone clearing their throat. I feel a pain in my hip flexor. I hear a cough. I hear the air conditioning. I feel the carpet. I feel the back of the chair. I feel a tingling in my right foot.

——————

I remember setting my bike against the wall in the den. It was the only thing in the room. I remember taking a photo of it and sending a text to Kyle, “Black beauty has her own room now.” Black Beauty was the name of my bike, my prized possession. It was the most luxurious thing I owned. It had a purple hubcap in the back. That was the only color. The rest was black. I remember how safe I thought it was in the spare room, gently resting on the newly painted white walls. I liked it there. It was balancing almost precariously, but it was safe. Then, we decided that maybe the landing would be best….

——————

I see the glow of the city below. I see the fog rolling off the roof of the house onto the deck. I hear the howling of the wind as it rushes past the bathroom. I taste the toothpaste in mouth. I hear the 37 bus approach the stop sign at Clayton. I hear the bus stop, the brakes release. I hear the bus roll away, growing distant faster than normal. I see the amber light of my room cast shadows on the bumpy wall. I see my desk with its rough unfinished surface. I feel the sweatpants. I feel the heavy wool socks on my feet doing nothing to keep me warm. I feel the threads of my comforter. I feel the coolness of my as I slip into it. I see lights from the city below fighting to break through the fog. I see my bedside table with the gray memory box. I hear the occasional creak from the empty house downstairs. I feel the front logo of my shirt press against my shirt.

——————

It was a typical night. I was alone. The house was empty. The only thing that made this night any different from the rest was the fog rolling down Twin Peaks. I had recently moved into the apartment. I was still getting used to the temperature of San Francisco and tonight it was cold. I was on the verge of my teeth chattering. With toothpaste residue coating my lips, the taste still lingered on my tongue. I couldn’t believe how strong the wind was. I watched from my room, the fog roll off the roof. It tumbled down without a care. The lights from the city below fought to illuminate the growing blanket of fog. It was in this new city that I was set to build a life. In the city below, an office waited to house me during the day. There was a job waiting for me down there. There were nights of debauchery. There were cold, windy, foggy nights waiting for me down in the city below my new apartment. However, tonight my dimmed amber light cast shadows against an uneven wall. The city lights were weak. The day was ending. The job was done for the day. The bars were empty. Instead, wind was my companion. It filled the empty house, rushed below the front door, and whistled through the slated window panes in the bathroom. The 37 bus began its climb up Clayton. Tonight, it seemed further away than normal. The release of air from the bus brakes when it stopped was usually so loud, but tonight the sound was diminished by the encroaching Marin layer. I ducked into my small and oddly shaped closet. I reached into the darkness trying to find the lightbulb. I was still getting used to having to crawl into my closet just to turn the light on. Once I clipped the light on, I grabbed my thickest pair of socks. These were the socks that stood apart from the rest. When folded together, they were twice the size of other socks. I put them on my feet hoping they would keep me warm. I wasn’t used to the San Francisco weather and my heavy-duty socks weren’t working. Lights off, I slid into bed. The scratchy comforter from my mother was a new kind of cold. My body warmed the side of the bed that was unoccupied just seconds before. The howling wind was my white noise. It would chill me to the bone and comfort me as I adjusted to sleep. In the absence of real curtains, I stared out the windows into the glowing darkness. The house felt hollow, the bed felt empty. I didn’t know when any of my roommates would be home. I didn’t know when the fog would take full form, when the wind would stop. I didn’t know when I would finally fall asleep. I was suspended in the new dark. It was just me and the fog. Just me and the wind. An empty house filled with invisible companions. 

Senses Writing I

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