october, xxiii.

Five forty-five.

I don’t hear the alarm clock. I don’t even hear him asking me to hand him the phone. I didn’t hear anything. I roll over closer to his side. He is warm and soft, still lost in sleep, everything is dark. I sink into bed, wishing we could sleep for another five hours.

I take the tram number five to work, it takes me five minutes to walk from the station to my office. By the time I reach, it’s seven oh-five. A day of fives, a day for a fresh beginning.

I let the past year slip from me, the absence of words created a dent in my memories. We all used to write more often before. We all used to live our lives differently. Permanent Record without a permanent record.

I could begin with June. Or with any of the other months this year. But there is no point. I no longer believe in clean slates as I used to when I was younger and starting from the beginning seems too exhausting.

What I can do instead is just show up. Show up for myself every day.