orion
at first, i was a number. number 112 lost in the organized shuffle of 116 bodies marching in the dawn. our faces towards the sea. our backs to the bay.
there was solace in daydreaming. evening after evening, we’d measure our steps from the dining hall to the concrete walk outside. we’d file into what seemed like a birthright—chosen for this place, this time. our eyes straight ahead, but sunset still crept into view. begging for attention.
at night the sky would peel back its darkness and reveal a gift, brought by the wind and the purpose of the place where we were.
I regret that you are in Korea, only because of the time difference, and somehow I miss your blog posts on my dashboard. No doubt they are swiftly replaced with images of skinny girls traipsing down runways, and sun-filled apartments with wall-to-wall bookcases. I don’t follow many blogs of substance. But when I realize I have missed your posts, that I am somehow days behind on these beautiful readings, this beautiful exercise you have designed for yourself, it is a treat. I get to read 300 words a day, not just 100. I get little bits and pieces of you. It somehow makes up for the past year, when I don’t think we said a single word to each other. You called me once. I was on the subway and didn’t have a signal. A voicemail from Korea, now who could that be? I still have it. “LIZ GAAAAHF” Anyways, I love this passage. I love it, because I remember these stories. I remember imagining what it must have been like for you. I still have the page you ripped from your manual. Funny how a page from the Coast Guard manual managed to find it’s way in my own.
Thank you for making this exercise public. I think it’s really beautiful, and will only make your writing stronger.
