Today I stood under a patch of shade stitched between the sidewalk and the library. I smoked a cigarette and listened to the people that passed me, either the shuffle of their feet or the random flashes of their remedial conversations. I was staring at a spot in the sky where a cloud had disappeared when she walked in front of me.
It was the first time I'd seen her in two years. She looked no different, her hair still falling red and gold past her back, her eyes still kind and innocent. She wore a green scarf, a smile, a brown jacket, dark denim jeans and black boots. I almost called out to her then, but she was with two others, and I didn't want to interrupt. So I stood and she continued walking.
Today I went from my waking minute until my arrival at this keyboard without saying a single word, not to anyone, not even to myself, which is odd, because I'm often one caught talking to himself when thought to be alone. I walked slower than I do most days.
Today . . .
I saw fourteen obviously happy people , and five obviously unhappy people - including myself, in the mirror this morning.
I've smoked three cigarettes.
I've read 120 pages in total.
I've written two.
I've smiled once.
I've brushed my teeth three times.
I've had one meal, a salad with chicken, a glass of orange juice, and a cup of coffee.
I haven't worked on my novel in a week. It's the longest I've taken a break from it since I started last September. I think I'm blocked.
When I climb into bed, very soon now, I'll lay there with a movie playing silently in the background, probably something comfortable and happy to watch, like "High Fidelity," or "Amelie." I won't watch more than ten minutes worth. I'll turn on one side, then to my back, then to the other. Eventually the sleep timer on the televion and the stereo will simultaneously turn off and I'll be left in darkness.
Then, after another hour, or maybe two, I'll finally pass out.
In the morning, it is unlikely I'll remember a single dream. But I hope I do.