American Sentence: Looking at the grey sky makes me feel so exposed
Half of my life is gone and I have let it go. I’ve plucked some pieces from it like chocolate chips from batter and pushed them into my cheeks, daring them to melt, reveling in the melting, mourning the melting, collecting the mournfulness.
Two years ago, three years ago, I was here, writing letters beside the empty swimming pool and here I am now, writing letters beside the empty pool. The surfers are still here. Different surfers? The same surfers? How have another three years passed? How has an other decade passed?
This morning I woke up at seven then went back to sleep until nine. I made eggs and coffee took a big swig of orange juice straight from the container. A year ago I didn’t drink orange juice. Four years ago I would have eaten overnight oats, no coffee. Twelve years ago it was two soft boiled eggs with salt; 25 years ago, cereal at noon. Everything changes eventually, even the things that last forever.
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