The breath between twenty years
That same breath tonight
We'll always betray ourselves
Always hold back time
“We all have rituals,” my friend said, absently digging around the sides of her cup with her spoon. We sat tucked in a corner of Amorino, and it was growing dark. Outside, Greenwich Village bustled into night, and here the windows grew reflective and self-contained inside the gelato shop.
***Please be advised that the following post may contain descriptions of self-harm that may upset certain readers.***
On my ferry ride home, I’m lulled into sleepiness by the boat’s rocking over choppy waves. Thoughtlessly, I’ve smeared ink down the page of my book. A blurry line of indigo that extended from an underline I’d marked off in the first several pages of Beauvoir’s Ethics of Ambiguity.
It was a six hour time difference from New York to Barcelona, which made walking around in daytime oftentimes feel like a waking dream. Residents from South America or Australia had a harder time, wandering around the house somewhat dazed, nursing coffees. They would be back to normal, they said, in about a day.
Even though I still hadn’t gotten used to how sleep worked yet, I woke at seven to beat the morning shower rush. I st...
Sunsets here are long and lusty, and the air becomes balmy and slow. The light makes beautiful work of the cliffsides, barren save for the occasional spray of gigantic aloe fronds–a cool, powdered green against red clay. Cypress trees, full of clusters of young pine cones stand erect over the tops of of bent crabapples. Here, the air is fresh, full of the smell of tall, dried grass, trodden down to hay.