Anywhere

I can see the west hills from my window. I can see clouds that look hot on one side from the sun, and on my side they look like shadows. I live across the street from a church now. From my window I see a bus stop on the corner with a bench that solicits broken homes and buying them. So far since I've been living here, a group of people stand in front of the church and laugh every night. Right now the sun is setting so my shades look like hot butter from where I sit. It gets quiet on this street at night. So quiet that sometimes I forget that I don't live in the Outback or the Irish country side, like I dream of.

My room is designed so that I feel like I'm sleeping in a cocoon. The carpet is thick and the wallpaper with flowers and ribbons covers every inch. The ceiling slants on each side so that I feel like the entire house is hugging me. I know in the summer it's going to be unbearably hot up here, but I wouldn't change it for anything. Sometimes you just know that you're where you're supposed to be.

It takes me five minutes to walk to work, ten if I'm listening to anything that makes me think, want to dance, or sing. Thankfully I walk to work early enough so that I can do two of those things without an audience.

I'm looking through the sliver of sight between the drawn shade and window and I can see the building with blue lights and I can't wait until dark: that's when the lights turn really blue. I'm finding it's taking less and less to entertain me or make me imagine wonderful things.

The light from the window in the house across the street just came on. I can't see the people, only the light.