Today I trapped myself at the top of the stairs, twice. Late for an appointment, elevators coming slowly, I dash up several flights of stairs to the room I should already be in. Full of energy and out of breath and locked out of the floor I panic, run down two floors, hop into the elevator, get out a couple floors higher, and go down a different stairwell to get to the room. Why did I not walk up one more flight, then take the other staircase down? I felt trapped, panicked, and took a simple solution I knew would work. Going up the stair would require more effort, so I didn't consider the option.
At 5pm, I get to my bedroom carrying my phone, book, and water bottle. What am I here for? I remember I've come for some Advil. But why am I carrying my book? My room is crowded with books and bags, the blinds are shut, and the place repulses me. Reading here in the early evening seems now to be a depressing situation. There's too much time left in my daily rhythm to retreat already to my attic abode. I feel trapped, the room closes in on me, but in feeling trapped I forget all plans that I might have had for the rest of the day. I could do anything; I feel the day opening out before me in all the possibilities. I see the library books on the shelf next to me and go return them.
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July, 23rd, 2019. Boston, Ma.