It seems as if most anything can be a place. My geographical location often lends its hand in determining some portion of my emotional state and this is probably why I seldom feel strong, inexplicable emotion. Mostly because I never go anywhere. I go to school and I go to work and I go home every day but that’s about it. I’m at my job so much it feels like home and school feels like work; it’s all pretty tiring, really.
My mind wanders off but that’s just when I’m at home, waiting for something to happen. Most of my time is spent lying on the couch or sitting in the chair. Like a plant on the sill, photosynthesizing with sunlight pouring into the room through a cracked window. Canvases on the wall, visual reminders of things I love. I watch paint dry on these framed pictures and rust begins to form on my teeth. I’m just kind of lying there, holed up and waiting.
An outside world of anxiety and alienation. I need limitations, guidelines: four white walls, a cubicle, at least a whiteboard. Confusion sets in and I start to look for familiarity in anything but always come up empty. I guess most places feel like this; less ennui, more confusion.
There’s a certain place where my feelings seem to crash together, though. I still can’t control them or make sense of them but that all seems pretty okay when I’m there. I don’t know why but it seems like everything’s slightly brighter at 2:34 in the morning in that room. With the window closed and no air conditioning, I can feel our bodies melting into each other.
Clamor 