Today is my 39th birthday;

therefore, here is a photo of

a baby 

holding a snake 

while the two of them attempt to spill a cup of water

with the brute force of a gallon jug

by rolling off a plastic tarp

laid haphazardly in the forest.

The audience watches from above.

I like this metaphor for today, but I don't know which I am --

the snake, the tarp, the jug, the cup, the baby, the leaves, the watchers.

(Lie. Obviously I think I'm all of them.)

* * *

Thus far, to celebrate (naturally), I've folded clothes, washed dishes, drank a green concoction that tastes like fish food,
cried leaving a voicemail (I think from happiness, but I'm not sure),
received flowers at my doorstep, pointedly ignored the birthday box on my kitchen countertop,
responded to social media birthday wishes quickly so I don't get overwhelmed,
fantasized about watching a specific movie that comes out in Houston tomorrow,
put on a pair of banana yellow socks, added chocolate to my coffee, and signed into university classes again.

Also, I stuck my hand under the running water from my faucet and got lost in the refractions,
how the water seemed to not touch my fingers at all but move around them in an anti-physics cascade.

* * *

You know, don't you, that I'm writing these ridiculous details as a prostheses for my own memory?

Why am I not putting this in a private journal, then? Do I require an audience and if so, why?
Will I be more honest with you here? Less honest? Does it elevate the mundane details to the significance of myth?

I don't know. 

You're blurry at best. 

I try not to overthink you, until I overthink you. 

This morning I'm keeping you at arm's length.

There is one thing I would have liked to do to celebrate my birthday, and that opportunity has already passed.

I work two jobs today and then am doing a bunch of nothing tonight. Maybe that will change.
No art projects, no bike rides in the sunshine, no romantic interest looking me in the eyes to assure me.... of anything.

I feel relief and terror. Mutually exclusive until they are not.

I'm not sentimental (so I keep saying).

I adore growing older, I like the way my body changes as the numbers increase.
I prefer the way my mind changes, more doors closing these days than opening.

The New Year never gets me. I make hazy resolutions and keep up with them in the same layer of gauze.

But January 14th shifts. What do I want from myself?

(I meant to ask, what do I want for myself?)

* * *

Have you ever done the quirky psychological test, The Cube?

My cube was clear but transparent at the edges where the corners met.
My ladder was rickety but climbable, leaning against the cube so that the climber could stand above it.

Selfishly, predominantly, my goals are directed inward(ly).

Maybe I imagine I can climb atop the self to see it and control it?

If I ever succeed, I hope I look out at the landscape and not down at my own toes.

Not only down at my own toes.

I hope I'll send pictures.

But we both know I'll never succeed -- not in the climbing, not in the atop.

So what is the landscape like from here?