like glass:

Here among old issues of the New Yorker and fashion magazines, literature and bottles of water and lost keys, the forgotton kingdom of Nuestra Senora de las Cosas Olvidadas. And yet all woven together, our molecules becoming acquainted with one another. Down to the fragments of atoms that compose this orchestral creation, the white of these walls and the soft yellow light in the corner. There are birds and memories and Cheerios and oil and electrodes and dried flowers, fingertips and nailpolish, sticky peanut butter. Songs like Mom used to sing, the same as the dreams I'll have tonight. Everything part of something bigger, like the strings of violins that sigh in harmony among bassoons, piccolos and crashing percussion, everything in its place, everything always, everything.
I had a dream last night about an ocean turned yellow and buildings that collapsed on themselves. When I woke up, there was no tragedy, only the familiar: someone in the kitchen, the sunlight through the curtains, the traffic rumbling somewhere beyond, the texture of the pillow under my cheek. And I drew that first breath awake, unravelling the images of yellowed seas and rubble: banished away into the subconcious. I lay there, for those first few minutes, strung between sleep and awake, trying to feel a part of everything, some sort of immensity.
I have a hard time inventing new things, so I often creep back into the refuge of memories, which I can reinvent and retell to my liking. I live off their color and smell, the cloudy taste of remembered flavors and the silkiness of their textures. They become metaphors, lessons, they become old friends and strangers that seem vaguely familiar. They're my own menagerie, my own kingdom of things half-forgotten. One day, I will make a garden of these memories, that I've nurtured back from the dead so they might bloom like orchids. When my bones creak and complain, I'll return to my garden and revel in the colors: lilac, mango, persimmon, chartreuse, soft brown like soil, the inside of guavas. But beyond their chatter, the songs collected that sound like a family of canaries, will be the interminable solitude of silence, the absolute quiet beyond Memory.