coffin underground

I live in a small coffin underground
is what I tell everyone

Because my apartment is the size of a small hotel room
smaller

And there is no such thing
as natural sunlight

There is a foot of counter space
and if two things are left on the ground
it looks a mess

My sink is made for gnomes
and I had to loose weight to fit into my bathroom

But I love my coffin underground
because it's mine

I can come home and everything is exactly where I left it

And it's quiet
and peaceful
and it holds all the things that I hold dear

It's the one time in my day where I am completely alone
in my coffin underground

i guess my blog is me.

sometimes i open up this blog and read through past entries and laugh.  they are all so different.  somehow, thought, when i read them, they all make sense together.  they all tell the twisty windy stories that twirl around in my head.  like puzzle pieces that don't make sense out of context.

i peruse others blogs and they are so consistent and so organized and just make sense.  and mine?  a gathering of words.  a telling of tales.  an expression of feeling.

and yet.  to me.  they weave the fabric that has made my life.  in each one i remember that moment, that feeling, that voice.  perhaps my blog is not so strange.  perhaps it is just simply me.  a me that i feel comfortable, and sometimes scared, to share.  a me that wants to remember the moments well.

so i will keep telling the stories and noting the moments.

and i will probably remain all over the place for a long long time.

warm

sun breaks through the thick thick clouds and for one day it warms the land.

it falls on the skin and starts to burn but the feeling is so foreign that before you know it, a patch of red has formed.

it blinds the eyes but the eyes keep a steady gaze.

it envelops everything in hope.

and suddenly all the gray is forgotten and all the cold fades.

warmth prevails.