just another sunny day for you
not a cloud in sight— this afternoon i thought about how many of these we might be afforded in a single lifetime. a hundred? five? what about a thousand? perhaps we’ll see it happen over ten thousand times. will that be enough?
no, i haven’t written nearly enough poetry. i’m willing to bet big money most poets die unsatisfied if only because the stolen breakfast sandwich we had one tuesday continues to deny its full significance in the grand scheme of our lives; nevermind the weather. we are locked in a boxing ring with time and also susan sontag and maybe magritte, if he would like to tussle. winner takes all: narrative or liberation or the days that turn into nights that add up to a whole life.
consider: around the equator, we get about two thousand sunshine hours per year. in the cloudiest parts of the world, that number is halved or cut by three-fourths the same amount. if i lived along the coast of tórshavn i’d probably peek into the dingy ol’ pizza king round the corner, duck between the black-tarred homes of reyn, and spend the rest of the day gaping at all the babies sleeping through rain and sleet outside, tiny bodies tucked into their strollers.
up north, they believe the cold makes them stronger.
unrelated: sometimes, when i close my eyes and let the dry, humid heat of this country seep into my skin, i imagine i am inching closer to substance. i used to think i was terrible at living, and that anybody who looked at me with even a modicum of scrutiny would only ever find a hollow imitation of materiality; but as it turns out, when you wear a mask as often as i do, the mask becomes you.
specifics best saved for another time— though i will say it helps knowing i was born in a place where the people refuse to burn. in a part of the world where, most of the year, we swallow the sun.
003: nearly titled suneater; god this is terrible. i wanted to write something sane and normal and not All This. img desc inspired by clever_reports on twitter.