anchoring myself with citrus
06 December 2004
9:46 p.m.
My hands smell like clementines.
There is a light snow coating the city--so light that if I were to take a walk just now, my breath added to the air could melt a path in front of me, and no one would be able to follow my footprints.
Sometimes I want that more than anything--to be able to disappear into nothingness, to be unfamiliar to anyone, to be gone.
But then, I'd want to come back, because I've never been one to live without warmth, and there's no warmth in a Boston December night, lost and alone.
On the other hand, I am not lost now, and I feel cold and lonely. Tired.
And I know that if it weren't for my hands smelling like a deep-red mandarin orange, I'd feel the nothingness of myself I crave so often.