#writing blogs

I’ll live a life where I have no responsibilities, not just the ones that require you to do things, but the ones that require you to feel things. I’ll take my medicine at the same time every morning, I’ll do my laundry on the same day every week, I’ll pay my bills on time at the end of every month, I’ll do my taxes at the same desk every April. I’ll live far away. All my belongings will fit into three cardboard boxes–every last trinket, every piece of kitchenware, every item of clothing, every photograph. There won’t be pictures on my walls, there won’t be any interesting furniture or bright paint. I won’t get married or have kids and I’ll have a landline that no one knows the number for. I’ll wear black all the time and work in a lab that’s overflowing with glass and metal and the temperature is stable all the time and the sinks dispense deionized water and everyone keeps track of when the chemicals arrive and when they expire. My parents will visit me one day, maybe on my birthday, and they’ll notice that I’m almost too calm, that I never appear to be particularly happy or particularly upset, that I make eye contact but it’s foreign and shallow. If in the past I’d left any mark on the people or places around me, they’ll be painted over white. And I’ll just look out the window and breathe.