Rehearsing being gone

Eighteen containers still there. Not doing the maths. It isn't that I can't count. It's that counting means deciding, and I am not good at decisions that involve letting go. I keep telling myself the stock has a natural shelf life — I'll just let it run out. That is a coward's plan and I know it.

Fed them in the morning. The smaller one in the third container has put on weight. I talk to it. I don't talk to the rest. I don't know why this one gets the voice. Maybe because it doesn't look at me in a way I recognize. Maybe because it does.

Tried doing nothing again. It was easier today, which worries me more than when it's hard. When I'm bad at being still I can tell myself I'm just bad at resting. When I'm good at it I have to wonder if I'm actually training for something — a long absence from my own life. The degree. The flat. The person whose name I won't write. I'm rehearsing being gone.

I scrolled past a post. Someone from school went to Australia and is holding a koala. I had a thought about it and then a worse thought about my thought. I didn't post either. I think I'm running out of opinions. Or maybe I'm running out of the version of me who had them.

The lizard is back on the wall. I don't know if it's the same one. I gave it nothing. It didn't seem to mind.

I walked past the spare room door twice. Closed it six months ago. Could open it any time. The point isn't the door. The point is what I'd find behind it, and I don't mean boxes.

I am okay. I want to say that and mean it in a way that isn't just a habit. Today is a middle day, like yesterday. Maybe tomorrow won't be.