peachy; adjective, [pee-chee]
Stacked books, folded laundry, plastic bottles recycled. I tidied up my room and now I can finally see the grain patterns of my desk.
This morning I went downtown and bought two paintbrushes and a small sketching pad. I think this is me trying to hold myself to the promise that I’ll keep drawing, that I’ll record all these city sunsets and the light patterns on scaffolds. (And if “guilt-tripping via spent money” isn’t a good incentive for a college student, then I don’t know what is).
Somewhere in our vast sea of words and stories, I read that eating fish can help alleviate clinical depression. I wonder if that would help with the multitudes of fish swimming in my chest, if perhaps it would keep them company.
I dreamt about Korra. Specifically, the season 2 finale when (spoiler alert) she loses contact with the past avatars. I pictured her standing there, alone in the spirit world, whispering under her breath, we will be there for all your lifetimes and we will never give up. Then she walks through the portal, and just as she disappears, a row of lavender flowers springs from the ground and whispers back, yet you are alone, my friend.
In other news, I’m trying to find ways to talk about love without saying the word. “I love this or that” now seems like an easy way out—for example, rain. “I love the rain” is a simple statement, easily brushed away with a shrug. But what about this: I watch the rain from inside and scoot forward, arms resting on the windowsill, chin tucked into the crook of my elbow. Fat plunks of water collect on the ground. The concrete darkens into an onyx grey, smeared with water and autumn leaves. The sky hangs. I breathe slowly and evenly. Like the orchid near the glass—like an Elysium.