I wanted to make a day

I wanted to make a day from everything inside me, everything that makes me. It would be purely mine. If I could forget what I was made from, what my desires and impulses were pasted from, I could make that force end, the force that makes me crumble into the desk, to be a servant, to disappear for the benefit of places that belonged empty. I made the decision not to go there, on a day like the rest, and because my body, molded from that place, worked into something out of repetition and implication, could not be trusted to allow the day to be, I had gone to watch the ocean in its fantastic pointlessness. It didnt need to be, but it was. When I am at the desk, the destruction of my body comes through routine. The actions are fixed and the setting is inscrutable. In the pattern of shadows under the empty desks and the cones of light from each lamp I see myself become nothing because those visions have become my existence, and they will not change, and I will not breathe, or cry, or sleep. I wanted to wake up at the beach, and for the desert to have crept to the oceanside so that I would have nothing. I wanted the choice to be made for me but I wanted it to be the other choice. The routine is a temptation because it is a life. The ocean was the other life, a mirage of stability that gives way to a confrontation with the aspects of my body that could never be fixed to my name, my location, or my memories. It changed too much.

There was something from the bright sky that I could take. I went through the metal gate, the courtyard, up the steps and across the walk to my apartment and I pulled the heavy curtains over the afternoon, and began the night on my own.

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