the lemon of pink

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what kind of day is it? sometimes I ask myself, these days I ask myself, and I look at the sky as if for an answer, but the sky is mute, unresponsive, calm, quiet.

I think of justified justifieds, and I think of a protest and its sense of unity, and loss, and belonging, and sadness, and hope, and it all whirls together into this mix of I-do-not-know-what, and I am lying here in a barren room in harlem looking up to an indifferent calm sky who looks at me with a greater perspective, taking deeper, calmer, breaths than I will ever take. it looks at me, it looks at me. I am asking it questions, and it looks at me.

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walking around is like an internal minefield. I watch the terrain-of-myself jump in and out, and I moderate it, press it down. breathe. flatten. smoothen. let things flow, body, self, being, let things flow.

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I think things like: "how will I live in ten years?" or "what do I want?" or "how do I decide what to pursue?" or "why pursue?" or "what does it mean to want"

and most importantly, I wonder things like: "will things work out?"

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earlier today after a dinner with my friend B, I decided to go down to wall st to drop by zuccotti park again. more than anything I was hoping to siphon some energy, because on a night like this there is nothing more lonely than being in a city where ______________________. there is just me, and me, and then these gridded buildings that slam down into the ground, hundreds of feet of steel structure and curtain-wall cladding zooming down, curating this modernist experience. and in the midst of this, here I am, and here is some sense of community, and for a moment I try to imagine the feeling that it will all be okay, that if all else fails then this warmth will feed me, clothe me, heal me, or at least try to do so. and suddenly it flickers into place and I have let things go: things like the breath I didn't even realize I had been holding.