Writing Habits

I’ve gotten into the habit of writing at the end of the day, sitting in my bed as I reflect on my life. It’s usually nighttime when I feel most reflective and insightful, but the problem is that I keep falling asleep on top of my computer. Therefore, I’ve decided I need to train myself to be more thoughtful during the day.

I bent over and untied my shoes, brown Roos with blue trim and matching blue laces. I keep them tied loosely enough that I can slip my feet in without untying them, but for a long walk like today, I wanted them to hug my feet and support the ankle I sprained last year that still bothers me. I loosened the laces and shoved each white-socked foot in its proper Roo. I pulled hard on the laces at each turn around, dragging the sides across the tongue, as close together as I could get them. I stood up and glanced at the clock on the microwave as I picked up my backpack: 10:46.

My keys sat heavily in one pocket of my zip-up sweatshirt, my phone heavy in the other. I reached back and found a fiver in the back pocket of my jeans. Sweet. The purple backpack I’d bought last year when I thought I might become a hiker and regularly climb fourteeners (mountains with a summit at an altitude of 14,000 feet or more – it’s a thing) – a ridiculous idea that I abandoned after I realized that fourteeners reside in the eighth circle of hell – was lighter than usual, just carrying my computer, notebook and the essentials from my purse. I flicked off the light and left, noting that my door needs some WD40.

It’s a little colder than I thought it’d be, so I pulled up my hood as I crossed the street and entered the park. I was on my way to a coffee shop just short of the other side. I was going to write. There’s so much inside of me that I need to get out; I need to purge myself of the thoughts, the feelings, that seep from my mind into my body, filling it up like a viscous liquid that rises and rises until I can’t breathe. Not until the words form in the ether within me and spill forth from my fingers am I able to sigh again. So on I walked. The park has changed since I left last November; the paths have gone from worn grass shortcuts to clean, white concrete, weaving its way along the perimeter, loosely following the road I take to avoid the constant intersections of residential streets.

No one was sitting on blankets in the grass or playing Frisbee with friends while dogs run back and forth around them. It’s too cold today. A woman with a Mohawk walked next to one with a shaved head ahead of me, the first wearing spandex workout clothes and carrying an ipod, and I wondered to myself if she’d suited up for the walk or if they’d met up after her run. A man in a heavy, worn coat and hat sat on a bench feeding peanuts to squirrels. They sat in a semi-circle around him, munching and waiting for more. They scattered when I walked through, and I almost felt bad for breaking the man’s spell, but changed my mind and decided it was weird.