A Pocket Archive (48)

I can't remember the last time I didn't feel tired. It was nice not having to do anything for a while, but left me with a strange itch in the back of my mind. I was not used to vacations.

Smoke trailed lazily through the air over the glass ashtray; it was a new one, with dull pink glass and geometric patterns cut into the sides, which fanned out slightly at the top and caught the light in an interesting way whenever the sun set. The last one had been broken when one of our cats made an off-balance attempt to leap onto the patio table. I remember sweeping up the glass and thinking that it seemed oddly symbolic, as though the changing concerns in my life deserved a new vessel for my prayers.

This was the first time I'd used it for tabacco.

I tapped the contents of my pipe onto the singed, agglomerated remains of the notecard and stretched, a sweet, burning taste lingering on my tongue. I honestly wasn't sure what to do with myself. The apartment was clean, all the bills were paid, and the refrigerator was well-stocked with everything I needed for dinner. I'd even organized all the cleaning supplies, wiped down the cabinets, and dusted the top of the fridge. I had nothing to do now, other than the one thing I'd been avoiding: writing.

I carefully cleaned my pipe, then laid it gently back into its case, which was starting to crack near one of the hinges, then stepped back inside the apartment. My notebooks were still where I'd left them on the coffee table, now buried under some outdoorsman's catalog, remotes, and a pair of boxing gloves. For 3 days I hadn't touched a pen, and the thought made my stomach twist.

It wasn't that the writing was hard; writing was as natural as breathing for me. The difficulty was more in knowing how to write what would come next, how much I should say, and how much detail I wanted to give, since I felt torn between as much and as little as possible.

I flopped onto the couch with a huff. Moments later something heavy landed on my chest, knocking the wind out of me for a moment, and a low, rumbling purr filled the air. I smiled and scratched the plump tabby's ears, flinching as her claws kneaded through my t-shirt.

I sighed, mindlessly watching the blades of the ceiling fan spin overhead.

I had time still- just so little of it was ever free.