journal entry, spring 2021

I’m 23 years old now and I’m closing my eyes while I type.

I walked down the wooden steps into this basement bedroom and I slipped. I spilled water on the concrete floor. My glass tastes sickeningly sweet after I brushed my teeth. 

It’s so quiet here. The mountains are like the elders of the earth. They have nothing to say. They just sit quietly in the dark snow.

I’ll be 28 soon, probably before I know it. I wonder what the world will be like then. I wonder what my hair will be like then.