At this point, I have yet to determine the size, scope, and style of it. Hell, I've barely decided on a medium for it. But it is an important thing to me. A personal project, of sorts. If you'd like to know about it, please ask. I'd be happy to sit down with you and discuss it as well as what you can do to help!
The hiss of traffic that churns through the nearby busy street, as heard through my anything-but-soundproof bedroom window. The soft hum of the heater, audible between passing cars. The echo of one half of a conversation of a person on the phone in the other room, made mostly unintelligible by the architecture of the building. The squeak of denim against leather as I shift in my chair. The occasional tinny pings that emanate from my desktop speakers as people in faraway places log into a now-seemingly-ancient electronic communication system.
Warm light from a single bulb spreads itself across bedsheets, carpet fibers, and wood grain. It scatters with dull shimmers on the wall texture and the water in the glass beside me. Fills the space like a dim fog, leaving shadows that feel like an afterthought, secondary to a presence which in itself feels secondary. Necessary. A white screen demands attention. Tired eyes cling to it.
My shirt hangs loosely off my shoulders and arms, quivering, gently brushing against my skin as I move. It makes the room feel warmer. The keys of my worn-out keyboard are smooth and cold to the touch, and my wrists have made warm spots in the wood of the edge of my desk. My chap lips scratch against my tongue as I lick them. They cling together slightly as I open my mouth to sigh through it. Moisture shifts in my throat as I clear it. The weighty haze of sleep deprivation hangs from my eyelids, head, and arms, as if my skin can't hold itself up. Invisible pressure on my chest, cheeks, and nostrils. My tongue feels like it barely fits inside my mouth. I am dehydrated and need to bathe.
Bottom-up mental processing, unfettered by intrusive thought.
The clack of a camera's shutter. The clink of glass against glass during a toast. The whirr of machinery, echoing the ingenuity of human beings. The click of a fastening lock. Electronic signals of confirmation and validation. The pop of bubble gum as it reaches its bursting point through pursed lips. The swipe of a belt being pulled through its loops. The complex dance of a pen being dragged across paper. The coos of a child being put to bed. Predictability. Satisfaction.
Clean sheets. New shoes. Scarves. Worn-out possessions, refusing to be replaced. Hugs. High fives. Sneezes. Chuckles. Kisses. Questions. Quotations. Sleep. Soft hands. Soft hair. Callused feet. Late night highway drives. Afternoon hikes. Sleepovers. Stories. Home.
Reading on a crowded bus, missing stops. Sitting silently in a noisy bar, deep in thought. Playing loud music at home, singing to nobody. Standing motionless under a shower head, trying to sort a thought out. Introspection. Introversion.