The Heat Is On.
Light is barging past the barriers. Armless blackout curtains can’t hold back the bossy sun, angles in sharp shadows do slothful puppet shows as movements take hours to unfold. To the muted music of wind caught in the small squares of screens.
The heat is rising in my room. Earlier, hotter, more imperious than it used to be. My elemental epidermis is too much insulation. (Ironic — word on the street is that I need thicker skin.)
With a poorly folded paper fan and Adidas sweatpants, I’m a russian mobster pretending to be gentrified Alabama heiress, dramatically recovering from a bout of the vapors.
Hot, post-victorian chambers.
Changes in seasons seem more extreme, less time in between, more time on the edge of a knife that’s either sat in the freezer or stung with a blowtorch.
I used to love my mission control. A fortress of solitude with a slanted ceiling. An alcove to moor my desk out past the heaths of blue-green carpet. The built-in drawers, the well-worn white dresser in the corner.
Now I feel the heat. Inside out, and outside in. As if the sun and I want the same thing. But we’re both too bullheaded to figure it all out.