It's morning, a Saturday. I'm not working so I thought I'd sleep in. A single knock on my bedroom door woke me around 7:30 AM. There was no one there. I knew that. I live alone. At around 8:30 AM, it was a quiet whistle. Obviously I'm neglecting something. Ok, I'm up.
I've got those potato rolls, sliced ham, and black olives. I've got some eggs too. Yeah, I'm going to lightly toast one of those rolls, fry an egg, slap some ham in the pan for a couple of minutes and assemble a sandwich. You liked the yolks nice and runny. I'll bet you still do. I remember how making you one of those for the road in the morning made me feel. I'll bet it still would.
What about the country?
Yeah.
What about the planet?
I know (vaguely). I do.
Why don't we turn everything off and just be as quiet and as still as we possibly can for a good long while? See if it helps.
I ate the sandwich. I'm a little out of practice. It was drier than it should have been, had less flavor. It was sustenance though. Not bad at all.
I remembered while I was eating it how everything seemed to turn on all at once back then. All my senses were suddenly sharper. I was ravenously hungry and everything was delicious. I felt desire, pleasure in being alive. Every moment was worthy of worship and praise. Even the smallest of pleasures were royal and decadent. Unless of course there was trouble, and then all that brightness and pleasure transformed instantly into darkness and pain and in the same proportions with the same unbelievable intensity.
A meme let me know today that I was trauma bonded. Whatever. Can't a guy just enjoy making a girl a sandwich? Must everything be a diagnosis?
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