the electric slide

It's that time again—
when noises sound slower and my ears feel stuffed, like plane rides and being underwater;
when I remember you (all of you) and sit patiently, wincing in anticipation of that familiar sting of nostalgia—it won't come like it used to;
when I stare blankly at the other insomniacs around me, discarding social norms like the empty paper cups in my backseat.

I think I have made over twenty different beginnings of proofs for the same logic problem (could this be symbolic?) to no avail.

I know. You saying, "sleep on it" comes to mind. But when have I ever taken that advice?

My forearms felt a sudden chill, and for now I'll entertain thoughts of:
ghosts sidling out of my closet and sitting with me, like they always do at 2am;
a Seattle breeze, making its way south, missing me as much as I have missed it;
how someday I will be kept warm.

The smell of chlorine is gone, and I think:
the floors were thirsty—parched, in fact—and at the sight of water, lapped it up frantically;
somewhere out there someone is swimming in the ocean, fighting waves with eyes squinted shut and legs rippling furiously through the ocean;
I am sure someone is doing the same thing as me, in some 24 hour Starbucks somewhere, smelling chlorine and wondering. Hm.

My life is thrilling, no? Watching Starbucks employees mop the floors, procrastinating on my take-home final, and trying (pathetically) to feel something thrilling when my body is aching for rest.

But, whatever. I'll be fine. (See "warrior, warrior.")