The darkness falls outside my window, like a giant knight gliding his blanket of stars over me. As the campus slowly falls asleep with sandman over their eyes, I sit on my bed wide awake, dealing with the consequences of sleeping a full 12 hours back home.
Why is it, when the world is fast asleep, I stay awake, eyes glinting? Why can’t I fall asleep? Is it rollover I sit on my bed, my eyes facing the brick wall, typing away some random shit that I know will be meaningless in the long run. I think. Thinking about nonsense while smoking the fake cigarette I never wish to have.
Watching the smoke come over my face, shadowing my glasses, she types at a vintage porcelain blue typewriter at her oak desk. Her fingers glide over the circular shaped keys as the ink slowly prints the letters onto the worn out page. The simple satisfaction of it all.
Jay’s in wonderland, they say. High off the drugs she takes to get there, off the worn essays she mechanically writes while sitting naked at her desk. She lives in her own world, apart from the reality she chooses to keep separate. In her world, she lives with the great American connoisseurs of of the beat generation, brilliant in their composition of new works in the arts. She gets high off of the books she reads, sitting in smoke filled cafe’s watching time pass by with every letter inscribed in dark, black ink. Their essence trapped in the manuscripts she rights.
Simply gorgeous in its composition.