I like my crack in my window, fresh air comes in even while I sleep. Crudely fashioned subway tiled ceiling meets me saying hello when I awaken. Cold unsanded floors meet my feet for a second before slipping into shoes. Dripping faucets salute me, worn broken kitchen linoleum murmurs hello as I walk on them. I grab my kettle and turn the faucet on to fill its belly. Setting the kettle on a tired stove top, flipping the switch, I look outside my window: its raining.
I open my glass sliding door and take in the bounty and crisp smell. Closing my eyes, I picture myself dancing in a meadow of lilacs with this smell and rain.Twisting in circles, my hair loose and flowing around me until I get dizzy and lay on the ground to stare at the pregnant clouds. Rain falls on my face.
The kettle seeks my attention which jolts me out of my dream. I grab my whining tea kettle and put it to rest, I take my filled cup with seeping home made tea back to bed.
My yellowed warping walls I sit my back to feels just perfect for my back. I can type in peace with waves of fresh cleansing cold air on my shoulder and face in my bed. I hear the cars go by at the edge of my perception. Sometimes people walk by, talking to themselves but I pay no mind to them. My cozy existence, a hugging wall and the fingers of encouragement on my shoulder from the goddess herself urging and whispering in my ear to me to continue typing.
I sip my tea contently.