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It must be winter because the dry and the cold creates an electrostatic field that envelops the legs of my pants and as I walk they seem to be clinging but I look down and they are not, so I suppose its instead all the thousands of hairs on my leg standing up, fully charged and rubbing against my pants. It's an odd sensation, but not bad. I use copious dryer sheets, that's not the problem, it just must be winter.
Or maybe it just must be the polyester they are made of, as I recently learned, my fancy brand-name pants which I thought were so high class for me and my usual thrift store ill-fitting style, and when turning them out to wash, I saw the tag. 100& polyester. Hyperbole would be that I am slightly devastated but reality is more that I'm slightly perturbed, marking it off in my head and making notes for the future about not standing to close to heat sources for fear they will melt against my skin in a painful, and unflattering, manner.
It must be winter because I move through the day in a fog of time and space that doesn't seem to pass, usual rates don't apply, I'm reliving the same day and accelerating through a few at the same time. Last night I left the house without thermal underwear, without even bothing to finish buttoning my shirt or zipping up my jacket, but merely the scarf tossed aside jauntily and crunching through the inch of snow while watching the last bit of it fall while highlighted by streetlights.
Or maybe its the lack of terrain, the flatness. I am seeking something outside of horizontal lines and plateaus, I want hill and steep edges and the momentum from falling that's so strong you are suddenly awed by gravity and how it can even pull on your brain enough to induce vertigo. I want to look down on something besides train tracks and my pant legs stuck to my skin, I want there to be a cavern, a valley, a cliff.
Or maybe it just must be the polyester they are made of, as I recently learned, my fancy brand-name pants which I thought were so high class for me and my usual thrift store ill-fitting style, and when turning them out to wash, I saw the tag. 100& polyester. Hyperbole would be that I am slightly devastated but reality is more that I'm slightly perturbed, marking it off in my head and making notes for the future about not standing to close to heat sources for fear they will melt against my skin in a painful, and unflattering, manner.
It must be winter because I move through the day in a fog of time and space that doesn't seem to pass, usual rates don't apply, I'm reliving the same day and accelerating through a few at the same time. Last night I left the house without thermal underwear, without even bothing to finish buttoning my shirt or zipping up my jacket, but merely the scarf tossed aside jauntily and crunching through the inch of snow while watching the last bit of it fall while highlighted by streetlights.
Or maybe its the lack of terrain, the flatness. I am seeking something outside of horizontal lines and plateaus, I want hill and steep edges and the momentum from falling that's so strong you are suddenly awed by gravity and how it can even pull on your brain enough to induce vertigo. I want to look down on something besides train tracks and my pant legs stuck to my skin, I want there to be a cavern, a valley, a cliff.
