Thursday, May 29

Disambiguate: The silence I feel right now is real. It is the silence of a basement in a town which is sometimes very quiet, despite the sirens and the trains. It is one in the morning basement silence. It is everyone else sleeping.

It is also the quiet after I have read to the end through tears and come back to myself in stillness, still holding the book, feeling its world fade except for what has become part of mine and will last for days, months, years.

It is this, and it's the light from the two bulbs in the ceiling, the tomato plants spreading against the now-dark kitchen window, the yellow couch and the afghan. It's what the skritching of my pen is interrupting, and it's the sleep that's crawling up my bones and waiting for me to give in.

So I will.