Updated: May 18
From my house, I heard the murmur of Highway 77. The cars talking to each other in a constant tone. For a moment I felt guilty for listening to their conversation. I hadn't noticed it was private until I blushed. I went into the bathroom and I turned on the light. Positioned my face so close to the mirror that I could see myself in the reflection of my eyes. I focused on them and said your name. A teacher told me once that your pupils would become larger when you thought about the person you love. I turned off the light and lay in bed, the rumble of 77 didn't seem exclusive anymore and I fell asleep as I listened.
Earlier I had gone to a book store, and read different passages about my horoscope sign, my handwriting, my palm. They didn't give me any answers. A light quality was in that day, but my feet felt heavy. It may have been my shoes. I kept holding myself from taking them off. I was thinking if I did that, I would fly away.
That night as I slept I dreamt there was a storm that blew in the stained glass windows of a church. We were in the basement of that church, hiding. Then I remembered I had left my dog at home. So I went up the curved marble stairs alone and walked into the storm to save her. I don't have a dog, but if I did I wouldn't have left her behind.
When I woke up my room had the yellow glow it usually does in the morning. So I looked out my window and squinted at the sun. My neighbor was fixing their car, making loud metallic noises. The engine would turn on and off with the same unhealthy vibrations. I lie in bed for a few more hours until they stopped. I could hear the children playing in the street now. After the sunset, I wondered what kind of day I had missed.
I went to my car and drove away. My car then explained to another car on 77 that I didn't have a destination exactly, I just wanted to hear them talk.
This was a post I made at 19 years old. It was my first ever published writing in a purely online journal called Inked, which is no longer in publication. But I remember.