winding down.

Outside the window are sidewalks and carefully trimmed islands of colorful poinsettas. Whenever I picture those hermetically minded flowers, I see colored pencils with their tops shaved into perfect cylinders, wood lightly dusted by the strangely shaded graphite tips.

Inside there is flourescent light that makes everything it touches the same shade of misery. White papers with black ink become pulsating tablets written all over with strange sigils. A blue covered book looks like nothing more than a bruise, a brush with strangers that ended badly. The red top of an aspirin bottle glares at me, furious intent that I cannot understand, or simply choose not to out of a sense of well-being. The wood paneled table in front of me, far from giving of that cheery visage of cedar smoked mahogany, seems to be febrile, so tense from expectation that a single touch would draw it to the ground into outlines. I look at everything and it makes sense to me, and perhaps that is the scariest part - that this all seems to make sense to me.

Today is a day of recovery, as Sunday was a day of recovery. Perhaps every day is a day of recovery for people like me - those who are less comfortable within themselves than they are without.

-Rich
one banana two banana three banana loves you