Someone out there is having a normal day

Brian Dang

and no one will talk about it
not because it’s uninteresting,
but because no one will talk about it.

On this day, the sun will shine,
as it always does,
its rays form layers of
warmth to reveal
   dust columns
on  old desks
and they’ll stand
and watch as the air wraps around them
in soft swirls of a        gentle light
extending beyond the dust columns,
and over them.

They’ll let the warmth roll
over their skin,
and a yawn will capture for a moment
the sun in their mouth, and it’ll taste
like woodchips, and the hum
of their room will run through
the air, landing with a mellow note
until they stretch and the crack of their bones
replaces the breathing walls and whirring
electronics nearby. The AC was running
all night, they forgot to turn it off
but the chills were swallowed by the morning anyway,
their stomach grumbles the same way
it grumbled when they were staying with their
and a sneeze is coming, they’ll hold it
in their sleeves, and wait for the sound to flutter out
despite disturbing no one else, and they
no longer hear ruffling sheets of others waking.

Their pulse beats the same beats
as anyone else, as they make breakfast
for three, forgetting they’re alone,
but they eat everything anyway, and
they can barely move so they’ll
     l  a  y
across their computer screens,
or their   floor,
or their   work,
or anything, really, doing
really, in the grand scheme of things (a cliché, really)
and they’ll eat at noon, just a little, out of habit,
and they’ll continue to work, or look at the news
or wonder about what they would do if they were at home,
and when they need to stretch
they’ll peer out at the daytime moon,
and the sky will appear to be the same
here as it was from where they came,
and despite feeling a stillness in the air they’ll smile.

They can hear, on the streets,
their neighbor’s dog and a car
will drive by, and even the bellowing
of airplane engines and streaking contrails
will make them call out for their parents
to ask if any groceries need to be done
but no one answers back, and children
run by,
and someone on a bike will ring their bell
and even the trees whistle the same.

The most important thing to happen
to them,
on this day,
they’ll have remembered to breathe,
and they’ll go to sleep
knowing that they’ve just lived another day.

I think I’ve just described myself.

About the Writer
Brian is a writer of prose and poetry dealing with all manners of the everyday filtered through words trying to leave the page.

Editor: Sun

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