Purple

When I am an old woman, I will wear purple everday. I will have everything in purple. My hair, my shoes, my socks, my purse, my shoelaces. Everything. Maybe I will try to make my teeth purple. Who cares? I'm old. I can do whatever I want.

At the airport, I saw a woman who was all pink. Pink sweater, pink sweat pants, pink nails, pink purse, and pink streaks in her hair. And I pictured her pink house and her pink closet and all the pink things she keeps in her house like flamingos and Valentine's day cards and lipgloss. I wondered: how many days of the week does she wear pink? One day? Two days? How many days is too many?

And it occurred to me: she's old. Who cares? She can do whatever she wants. She's earned the right to be completely ridiculous. When you're old, you only have so much time left. And that becomes real to you, I imagine. And maybe you suddenly think to yourself: I wish I had worn more pink in my life, and so, you do.

And so I'll wear purple and I'll do whatever I want when I'm old. I'll stay up all night because I'm retired and have no where to go. Maybe my husband will finally be glad we can watch late-night with Conan. Maybe I'll finally adopt a hamster, and paint random words and art on my walls like I've always wanted. It's funny how your life would change if you knew your time was limited.

Isn't everyones?

Miami muse

Miami. Land of giants. Minds that bob back and forth from work to school to work and again. Every warm night, the sweat sticks to our eyebrows, runs down the invisible lines of our faces. Living here so many years was like being a zombie. And now, again.

Some nights, I drive around in the car just to smell the breeze blowing. It's better just before dusk. Though, I don't know what I'm doing. I have to remind myself to stay grounded, stay steady, stay focused. There are too many things to take my focus here. For one, my high school. Wandering there like a ghost that passed away five years ago. How I want to go see it. Every day I think: why can't I just pass by? Just for a moment? One second? But, one second gives way to many more.

So does one thought.

The other day I get a friend request on my facebook from a stranger. A man I haven't seen in a few years. Doesn't matter. He's history. But his memory, like Miami, is not. So I pace around my old green room and wonder and wonder why this ghost has suddenly reappeared. What does he want? What should I do? Keep my head on straight. Maybe I should read something inspiring. Maybe that won't help. It's not so much him, its the thought that he's not fake. None of it was. None of my past. Everything was real. It really happened. It's still blowing out there somewhere.

Mostly, I spend my days here avoiding. Too many people and too many memories. They're dark. Dark, black and real. I don't care what anybody says. They affect me.