At the beginning of the day, the sun came into the room through the windows’ thin curtains and spread soft amber light over the patients in their many beds. I stood there quite movelessly, curious of almost nothing, just soundless and thoughtless, hovering like a picture in its frame on the wall.

The hours grew so late that I started to sing out of tune, and when the record ended, it skipped a bit, to me seeming like part of the song for a while at least. But after a bit, I did get up, and flipped the record over, then went to sit on your bed to wonder in charmed paralysis where you’d gone to, where you were; you were at work of course, always at night you were, on a weekday anyway. But, in your life: where were you, and what did you do, how did you always feel? Then I stood, placing the record back where I’d found it on the floor, slipped out the back door but not before making quite sure it was locked behind me. I walked to the corner market and browsed the aisles, thinking of breaking into your house again tomorrow too.

They walked down the street, seeing nothing important, finding little to look at.

Poured all of my energy into making the guests feel welcome and desired.

Misplaced things sometimes get found again. That’s why people drag lakes when someone goes missing.

Perhaps less faith in people is what it takes to feel weightless, like I can fly. I only feel beautiful inside when I read the headlines and see that some mother’s locked her children in a car and rolled it into a lake. I only feel worth it when I read the headlines and another father has stabbed his two sons in the middle of the night while they were sleeping.

(Source: corpseonpumpkin.com)

But it’s not. It’s not anything. I don’t believe in anything. I don’t want to be right.

If you can wake up in the morning and only remember a little bit about where you are and why, isn’t that something?