silencia

Today was an odd sort of day. It came and went, and felt much like a dream.


SHE

... walks into the room with a paperbag over her head. Normally, she evokes fear in the hearts of many, but today, she wants to paint a different picture. With a drawn on smile and rainbow curls for hair, she tries to carry on a serious conversation. But her words seem muted behind the ridiculous mask. Despite the colorful, "happy" face we're looking at, we can feel the scowl that lives underneath. I can't look anymore. I blink and I find that I'm somewhere else.


Everywhere I turn, there are books. I stop. I smile. I breathe in the wonderful scent, and proceed to graze my finger tips across the exposed spines as I walk down the narrow walkways. I stop in an all-too-familiar section, and notice a stranger obstructing my view. He notices my presence, kindly smiles, and apologizes for "hogging Garcia-Marquez." I crouch down to see if there's anything I feel like adopting, and he proceeds to butcher beautiful Spanish words with his American accent. He tries to regale me with knowledge of books he obviously hasn't read. My interest wanes. His ship is sinking fast. He tries to ask me about Garcia-Marquez and I talk to him about Borges. I start to walk away. He wishes me a wonderful day. I can feel his eyes on my ass.

I find myself nostalgic for New York City.
I find myself nostalgic for Los Angeles.
Portland, I love you, but you're quickly proving yourself to be a place where people go to never grow up, not fall in love.

For you:

Love.
Silencia