Self at the Dinner Table
archival pigment print
8 x 10 in.
I lay in my bed night after night passing questions back and forth with myself. Will I finally start that book that’s been sitting on my bedside table? How long can I leave that spaghetti squash uncooked before it goes bad? Is it Monday?
These days have had their way of blending into thick soup. The same objects on my shelves greet me day in and out, the light dances in patterns and places once unfamiliar to me. This home is bringing me new things to notice each day, but as spring turns to summer I am exhausted in my efforts to find the new among the same.
Weighted down to my bed, wearing the same shirt I put on three days ago, no one can smell me through the screens. I hear my housemates from the other unit creak their floorboards above me, I wonder if they feel thrilled when I make my existence known too. This is a home where I am, and all my things are too. Home is where night and day has started to feel the same.
© Rachel Dickson