At school I watched students in my Creative Writing class preform self- written plays entitled: "Long Shot," "Where's the Lighter?," and "How to Befriend a Black Person." The lattermost was rather amusing. After school I took my dog on a long walk.
Spring was overwhelming the suburbs and quickly took a hold of of my senses when I walked on the secret path by the creek. Pollen lumped itself in white caterpillar-like mounds, losing fur to the breeze as if it were capable of shedding its winter coat. I thought to myself that life must be all about shedding skin, then forgot why I thought that.
There was the permeating smell of the wood of my door caused by the sun's persistant heat. I thought that if wood could sigh its breath would smell of Croatia, of the lazier ships that bob in the docks while the temperature rises to 35 degrees Celsius, and the floors of my grandmother's house when the doors to the terrace are open wide and she is smoking a cigarette, drinking Turkish coffee.
I remember how she sat with me there at 3inthemorning when I was young, plagued with insomnia. And the sensation of electricity in my fingertips that I always thought would accumulate to some otherworldly magic but only ever had me diagnosed with anxiety.
