I spend the bulk of my time attending to mindful creations, playing out story lines for the patrons of my mind. Although it appears I am reading a paragraph terribly slowly, in actuality I have taken a break from that particular passage to engage with the character personally. This afternoon I traverse over two hundred years to consol Mr. Darcy on the green meadows of Netherfield, after coming upon Miss. Elizabeth Bennett, her sisters and that dreadful Wickham fellow. I try desperately to hold true to the standards of the time but feel myself closing the space between us. A flash of shock violently coats his eyes, I don’t want words now. The intimacy of his jaw in the hallow of my hand. The way a mans face is never as soft as my own, never troubled to even their skin tones, how their faces are as free as their bodies- I quake with envy.
Then thinking of new homes, the soft whimpers of my sexual revelry under doorways and through keyholes. The first month literally defined by cardboard and restlessness. The apartment we had several years ago with screaming pipes, our current residence with the irritatingly inquisitive neighbor and inconsistent water temperature. So many places I have lived within, if they had consciousness would they miss me as I miss them? I recall these places by their architecture, the nooks and crannies that I acquainted with the pads of fingers on initial viewing. The smiling realtors, aged men, students, all the same expression. Gentle prayers loft upward on the strange breeze of my apprehensions to the patron saints of ‘moving without misfortune‘, ahem- amen.
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