A Sunday of Rest and Relaxation

And the thin meaning it carries

Photo by on .

It was Sunday. The house was empty, as it’d been for the past six weeks, wood floor stretching with horizontal loneliness inconceivable to vertical walls, and through the windows, a row of trash cans which he knew to be full and now could not recall what with. He’d spent his whole savings here, which was intended for his parents or a new life, and there was no sign of it anywhere.

Instead it had dropped off into a moment, hidden somewhere in the skin of this house. In its cabinetry. Where nothing was right. It was going to be a full circle but instead was only a dot. This life downtown. Now he found himself on an old couch from Costco, blinds down to block out tomorrow, and a few restless kids drag racing the street outside.

A moment beyond the definition of color gone to something else. Char. The way a sirloin looks after it has been burnt. A kind of sadness. A performativeness. He was in there but he was part of a framing.

If he took a photo you might see a television or bookcase filled with books that told a nice story, but outside the frame, a stack of boxes and rubber bins, things you would never see, told a more true story. And outside all that, someone else took a photo of him. Yes. He was in a photo. He was a story belonging to someone else.