The upsetting quality of the music I play. The look of my hair after several days without shampoo. The sense I should be outside but don’t feel like it, the look of the snow after it finally seeps into our lawn. The odd bump on one of my toes, the white in my beard. The smell of our bathroom after it’s been cleaned, and the illusion it’s clean from the chemicals. The gap between my daughter and I that only gets wider when we shout. The odd satisfaction I get (and how it takes no time at all) rearranging the sauces, jellies, and spreads in the refrigerator. The pride I have from how much money I make. The dark sense it will ruin me. The distance in alcohol. How hard it is to do push-ups when you’re not in the daily habit of doing them. The joy of going away. The joy of coming back. The dull smear of days when they’ve lost all distinction, and those rare times we see the world for what it really is. The first day it really feels like spring. The joy of getting a good table or a good parking spot when both require luck. The way a deep cut heals itself, and the same with the shrubs and trees as they slowly stand up again after being pressed down with so much snow. How keyboard shortcuts make you look smarter than you are. The satisfaction of fixing something. The childlike look of a dog. The feeling of clean sheets. The symmetry of a good ending, and the feeling of being cheated by a bad one.

Categories: prose, writing

Tags: creative nonfiction, humor, life, mindfulness, nostalgia, prose, stream-of-consciousness, suburbs, the nature of art, William Pearse writer, writers block, writing