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When I Was Living Alone

I do not work well in the quiet. I do not work well in the stillness. Time is expanding around me, giving me the room to make myself bigger. But I do not take Time up on its offer. As Time swells, I remain small––outgrown.

I tell myself I will catch up; I will puff myself with air until I re-inflate and fill the empty space with all of me. But it has been hard.

The phone is a cavity, and the wall is alluring. My bed sticks to my skin and when I peel myself away it calls me back, sleepily murmuring that I look tired–-the bags under my eyes must go. My fantasies and music cradle and rock me, and it is so easy to stay there, nestled in my mind.

Maybe it is good to be slow. Maybe this is leisure, not stagnancy. I tell myself such things, but the pitter patter in my stomach suggests I do not believe them. I ought to leave my apartment more.


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