contacts

I sat with a pair of my friends at a small square table waiting for our orders from the sushi bar. Each of us took a side, with the fourth occupied by the restaurant's counter. With just three feet at each of our ends, we thee were intimately packed together.

"Doesn't he look weird with glasses now?" my one friend chirped to the other, pointing out the now spectacled face of mine which no longer had vision corrected by lenses affixed directly to the eyes.

"I didn't even notice he was wearing glasses. I mean that's just how he looks normally to me," was the response.

Two friend (close friends at that) saw me rather differently. Sure the power of observation of one of my friends is sometimes questionable, but it is a big enough change in appearance to be noticeable. I look different to my friends, the ones I can actually call my friends without scorn or contempt.

Its a stupid little thing that really doesn't mean anything. It just sticks to me for some reason. I'll remember this decades from now when it really shouldn't even be a footnote in any of our lives. But I'll remember it for no good reason.

Three months in and I'm barely clinging on to my resolution. April begins tomorrow, don't be fooled.

Phoenix Wright

I'm terrifically hooked now. There is no napping during lunch or my commute, which is unheard of in my little world. Pretty sure the dull throbbing behind my eyes is from both the deprivation and the tiny DS screen.

The hardest Psyche Lock to break is the one you have on yourself. Think I might be making some headway here.

A Sunday Night

After a rather fun and productive evening, I decided that I'd head to bed early. Sunday night is the worst time of the week for me, worse than a Monday morning at work. Back when I lived with my parents, these nights were extremely lonesome. The world seemed quieter somehow, in a foreboding sort of way. And in those quiet moments all the things I've managed to run away from all week catch up with me. It's never a pretty sight when it does. Things have been better since moving out, but I find myself still bracing for an unexpected blow to the gut, a sudden kick to the ass.

Two hours after I'd fallen asleep I awoke. It was midnight and there was no familiar fog to my eyes. My stomach rumbled but ignoring it, I made my way to the living room, dodging obstructions easily - my eyes and senses had never felt so alert. I slid onto the couch, curling up bathed in the light from the streetlamp outside the window. The light felt cold, even as I tugged my socks up to my naked knees. It was a white, harsh light, not the deep orange that used to comfort that something panicking underneath my outer calm. All was hushed, all the world was in a slumber the night before the beginning of another week.

I shut my eyes, balled my fists, daring the night to do its worst. Seconds passed, then minutes. Surely I could not hold my breath for that long but I don't remember hearing it. When I opened my eyes again, the world had not changed, but the rumbling in my stomach traveled deep through my gut, boring a burning hole down right between my legs.

It would not do, so I ate. I stared at a wall and shoved what little I could find into my mouth until the gnawing ebbed. This time, there was no slap to the face. Eating out of relief was an offering to the Gods, a coward's habit. Lucky so far but who knows if my luck will hold out for next time? With that sobering thought I made my way back to the bedroom, nearly tripping over a slipper. Turning aside a corner of the comforter, I stepped back into bed and pressed my body against my boyfriend's. I pushed my face into the side of his neck, hissed that he was mine, that he was all mine, as if it would return me back to where he was, peaceful and oblivious. It never works. Sleep was a long time coming.

Photographer.

I'm a photographer. I spend most of my days looking at pictures, then figuring out how the pictures were made. I read countless articles about photography, look at countless portfolios, developing a taste that I feel far exceeds my skills. I have a fairly firm grasp of the basics, I'm technically sound, and while I may or may not have a "good eye" as some people have stated, I feel I am creatively lacking. In short, I feel stuck. As Zack Arias described so well "I'm driving 100mph towards a dead end." I run a photoblog but while people may like my work, I find it lacking. Something is missing... maybe I'm just too critical... but I guess it's just normal.... I just need direction.