Sound: Intermittent noise of
cars traveling down nearby streets. Low hum that must be the house's
heater. Somewhere else in the house, Emily runs the water, and I hear
the pipes. Clacks as she organizes the kitchen. I hear the tearing
sound of a plane, we're not far from the airport.
Touch: I'm sitting on a hardwood
chair, with a pillow on top. It's lumpy against my butt. The pen grip
is hard, smooth, not like some rubbery grips. I feel the edge of the
table against my arm. My hand against my forehead, the skin drags on
both surfaces.
Smell: I smell absolutely
nothing. Yesterday I was sick, constantly sniffling, and no energy.
Now I have my energy back, but I can't smell a goddamn thing.
Taste: I still have a teensy bit
of breakfast flavor in my mouth. The sauteed mushrooms, the cheese,
the thyme. There was also Kale, eggs, butter, and oregano, but I
don't taste those anymore.
Sight: Two things strike me. The
Rodin replica. I remember it in my Grandfather's library – dark
green, but detailed. It didn't quite make it through the plane trip.
The head is crushed, and only the head. Shattered into a million
pieces, like a premeditated act of violence. Next are the two aloe
plants left on a desk with no direct sun. They're growing straight
up, totally pale, in a life or death struggle to find the light.
Update 3/8/2015:
I guess if this blog is anything, it's
a chronicle of me teaching myself to write, so I may as well post
this kind of stuff. I never took an English class in college (I got
out of it by cross referencing with a poli-sci class on Eastern
European protest novels from the Soviet era), so this is a fun
adventure.
I moved the aloe plants to a window,
they're doing better now. At least, they're green now, so that means something.
