drinking black coffee
i drink black coffee. i never specify that it is an americano, but it usually is, unless it is my morning coffee, in which case it is an aeropressed coffee. it is unlikely that i am drinking my morning coffee though, as i rarely write when i drink that particular coffee—my mind is mostly in a fog, and it can only be lifted once the coffee has been absorbed.
breaking a nail
i break a nail. i keep my nails long and pointed, and though they are strong and seldom brittle, i break one every now and then, usually while doing laundry. when i break a nail, as i did today while flipping over wet clothes in a red basket, i make a note of it because i can feel it. the broken nail is perceptible and unavoidable, most notably when i pick up my pen.
inking paper
i blacken pages. i write about turning blank pages into a mess of sentences and trading one emptiness for another, as i enjoy seeing white lines morph into something dark, no matter how irrelevant the words. the blackening of pages is a process of deliverance, one that is further accelerated upon disclosure. three more words. two more lines. this entire paragraph stained a quarter of a page, and i may have just become a little lighter.
observing through windows or doors
i never have my back against the door nor the windows—i feel hemmed in and anxious if i cannot see what is happening in front of me. i need to observe what is going on outside, but also inside and in the doorway. i am invested in the ins and the outs of the stretch of street and room i temporarily call my own. most of what i reveal unfolds before my eyes, and from these moments, i conjure more moments. it is always easier when i can see what lies ahead.
time
because every time i pick up my pen, it is no longer the moment when i last picked it up, and how strange and disquieting that is.