"One can write and think too much - be too solitary, until in the end you feel as if your brain had been bruised. Better to rest sometimes from the problems, just sit in the sun for a time."
-- Derek Raymond, He Died with his Eyes Open
Late morning. My dorm window has been open all night, conveying the sounds of cars, birds, and voices into my room. It feels like spring, finally. The fluctuating temperatures have taken a toll on my sinuses. I sit here in bed with an alternately stuffed and dripping nose, my throat sore, my lips dry and cracked. There is a breeze and my ceiling fan is on. I crave coolness. People rush outside on days like this--they jog, bike, wander the streets, sit with friends on benches. The morning light feeds them. But I stay inside, watch the world from my window. Most of the trees are still skeletal and stripped bare. A few dogwoods are frothing with white and lavender blossoms. The sky is one vast pool of luminosity from which light pours and pours. We drink days like this. We can't get enough.
I will stay in bed and keep reading Sleepless Nights by Elizabeth Hardwick. I like the flowing, fragmented style of her writing--the descriptions of New York, Billie Holiday, childhood in the South. I will try to write about the last few weeks, wade back into the trauma I've been avoiding. My memory is already degrading. So I must find the words before the experience disappears.
For now, there is only light and wind and birdsong.