Monday I forget how to write. I forget sentences, words, alliteration, the villanelle, Paradise Lost, what it means when two lines stretch straight and another connects them diagonally. I lie on my back and consider the bumpiness of the ceiling. I listen to music with words so mumbled I can’t understand what they are.
I hide. I remember. I crouch with my notebook under my desk. I drive my car to a parking lot far away and type a secret story into my phone. Tuesday I make new accounts, doubletriplecheck the clouds, rip out pages and shred them, burn the evidence in the sink. I invent pen name after pen name and write them all down on a secret twitter account using an incognito tab. The more I hide, the more eyes I see, the more printers I imagine printing out every twitch of my eye.
Wednesday I consume. Not just food but also: three novels, eight short stories, the second season of a TV show filmed in the 1980’s, two movies punctuated by a book of poetry. Finally I cut open my watch and eat the cogs, pick my teeth with the anonymous hand. Finally I eat the hours, roll the minutes around on my tongue, pop the seconds like fish eggs. Days I set aside for later.
I float up to the ceiling and then through it, drywall, insulation, pipes, then up to the sky, stars, galaxies, hydrogen.
Fridays are always for the garden. I stand outside in the tall grass. Bees settle on my skin and leave again. Six new flowers have opened since the last time I checked. I pray for rain, among other things.
Five rocks at equal distances. One grain of salt, one candle, one drop of blood. I drew a small circle with dirt and a bigger one with sand. Also, there is one glass filled with pure water, one bowl filled with salt water, one tiny vial filled with tears which are both pure and salt simultaneously. Also, there is a lock of hair. Also, there are flames.
I start walking and never look back.
You can follow Noa Levin on Instagram @nvalevin.