on my way back from anthropology

the wind blows my hair in front of my face and the faint smell of cigarettes and a strange flower along with my own apparent pheromones becomes strong enough to block out the pine trees all around me. i pass two girls talking about small dilemmas made huge and think “you’re not alone.” the stairs are wet and grey and the leaves are dark and wet and mottled, making my shoes stand out like strange insects. it is so cold that i can’t feel my ears and yet i can’t see my breath, and i feel a strange disappointment in that fact. it was one of those moments when you become acutely aware of all the things around you and feel a desperate urge to document them. the smell of gasoline from a passing car, the mud on my shoes coming off on the pavement, the bright copper of the door handle and my hand reflected as i unlock the door. the way the clouds make all the things outside sort of grey, all grey, red, and green outside. the small shock of entering the yellow, white, and grey wash of the inside of the stair well, then making the transition to inside and warm and home. wondering why my hair smelled like cigarettes. maybe because of all the plumes of smoke i walk through on my way back.
we are bombarded by so many contrasting images and feelings and sounds, it is a wonder we are not all overstimulated blobs.
there are hearts on my window for valentines day. they make me very very happy.

About Charlotte

In an attempt to figure it all out, I've broken the world up in to tiny pieces and am conquering them one at a time.
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