I'm just a hologram. You can see but don't touch me.
The cheshire cat smile of the moon beamed down at me.When I tilted my head to the side, I could see that small sliver of a gleam teasing me.
When I looked sideways again, I could see that she had her head out the window as we drove down the road. The window was rolled down and the wind glanced through her hair. What did she see? Was she looking at the moon, too? Or did her eyes peer at something else entirely as her gaze was directed heavenwards? Even if I was uncertain as to the contents of her mind, I was already familiar with that expression on her face.
I had come home to find her on my doorstep, a long list in hand and a self-assured countenance.
"I need supplies." she had said matter-of-factly.
I don't know her name. I doubt that she knows mine. But I've seen her. Walking down the street, going the opposite way. That now familiar expression as she looks upward at the sky, towards the tree tops, or with eyes half closed while music flows from her earphones into her consciousness.
This is all conjecture. This is what I think when I see her walking up the street this way at the same time every day.
And now we were driving towards the local superstore Walmart as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
That's the strange thing about night though. All these things that would seem out of place or odd or questionable in daylight seem to find their place at night. So instead of asking for her name or offering mine, or asking how she knows me -- or knows where I live -- I went back to my truck, turned on the engine, and waited for her to join me.
There's none of that urgency that would have come with daylight. That urgency to keep hold of this time, understanding that it's so brief, and that I need to grasp it and find out all that I can about her. No pressure to get her name, her number, or to find out what she thinks of me. The silences as we stall at stoplights are peaceful.
And so we're driving to Walmart with the windows rolled down and that moon smiling down at me as if it already knows what's going to come next.
/ / /
I live in my head. I'm saving all that I can until I'm dead.
The moon doesn't really give a damn whether it's waxing or waning. And so why should I? And yet as I examine it, I wonder...is it diminishing in quality, or growing towards its potential? Will I see it disappear soon? Or will I see it at its most luminous quality -- full and ripe and bursting with glory before it begins its inevitable decline?
Am I waxing or waning? Do I have yet to reach my full glorious self? Or am I slowly...but surely disappearing from this world?
I refuse to do that. My peak will be my end. That's why I have this list right now.
I slowly unclutch my fist and smooth out the wrinkled sheet of notebook paper on my jeans. Written in bold black sharpie marker is a list of things that I need in order to fulfill my plan. Bold to assure myself that I am confident. Sharpie markers are meant for those that are certain of what they want. It's not meant for mistakes.
Some items were thought out carefully. Others were realized more whimsically. But ultimately, all the items are necessary.
What am I planning on doing?
Why should I tell you?
I live in my head. I'm saving up all that I can until I'm dead.
