The other day I read a book. Like, layed down on my bed at 3pm on a Sunday and read a book. I turned my phone on silent, put it on the shelf I can’t reach from my bed and read a book. It was nice. Not that I could focus on the story, because my thoughts wander these days, but it was nice to just be. Not look at a screen, not talk to anyone, not listen to anyone. It was just me. Scratching my thigh a little bit when it itched, touching the pimple on my cheek to feel if it had grown bigger, watching my stomach rise as I breathed the humid air. Window open letting a light breeze inside together with a couple of flies and the smell of empanadas. The dog on the other side of the back yard barked, a car passing on the street blasted that latest Latino Bieber track, my roommate laughed at something in the kitchen. Probably a meme.
I’m usually very restless. Can’t get through a page without looking at my phone to see if that guy had liked my picture or if someone had texted me something irrelevant. But as I layed there I found calm. It’s not easy these days. Mostly I’m very conflicted about how to live my life. Being attracted by the wild and beautiful, chasing highs in boys and nights has left me feeling as exhausted as it has empty. I’m really a sensitive, emotional little bird on the inside. Finding a balance seems impossible.
I long for next weekend when Nicole and I drive upstate. We’ll spend the days swimming in the lakes, hiking the mountains. The evening’s barbecuing, drinking wine. The sky gets so dark there, but it’s never scary. It’s like you can breathe again after living in the city of smog and people and subways. There it’s quiet and clean and pure.
Finding these moments, whether it’s reading a book on a Sunday afternoon or driving up to Woodstock, is how you make a summer without barely any vacation bearable. You just can’t survive in the heat and humidity if you can’t escape for a while. Not look at a screen, not talk to anyone, not listen to anyone. At least I know I can’t.