we all still think about everyone.
It’s been a month since I’ve moved back to Brooklyn. It’s September, almost. It’s September in my writing, too. Ambrose has just met Eleanor, the elementary school teacher. I haven’t decided how long she’ll last.
Last night I had a friend over; we took a bottle of wine up to my roof and we spread a blanket out and commented on the light pollution in the city. She told me stories of her childhood, how there are home recordings of her in a bathtub speaking in a language she no longer knows. It was a warm night and it was quiet and as far as you could see were empty roofs. Miles of empty, dark roofs. I made pancakes in the morning, we ate on my floor.
Today I took a quick nap, I showered and washed my hair, I pinned it back and I’ve been writing ever since.
I have all these thoughts and I sort them as best I can, I put them away in mason jars, but some sneak through. I’ve always wished we could turn off parts of our consciousness. It’s impossible not to think about something you don’t want to think about.
I saw a photograph of an old friend. He looked very happy, much happier than when we were together. I thought, i wonder if he still thinks about me and then I thought of course he does. we all still think about everyone, only some more than others.
