done, but with errors on the page

Tonight I sit under the ugly heavy blanket my father sent me years ago. Mailed with a card and words filled with an intention of something I’ve always failed to understand. Sentiments that rivaled the sincerity of brown paper packaging. But it’s the weight I’m after. Wrapping myself under the excess material. Under the auspices of poetry and words that escape all boundaries and meaning. Of things that were never intended to mean anything to me in particular. The book feels heavy and cool on my lap, and I rest my forehead against my fist. Stare at the page and try to associate meaning, feeling, emotion to the black and white – the unintended words. Right now, there’s something in the way. The television flashes. Lights up the room with stories to be told about other lives for which I can’t spare investment. Too lazy to fish out the remote. Besides, turning it off might deliver me into a world where I’d have to exist with myself – have to deal with myself – so I let it carry on. Savor the last vestiges of sanctuary in the house -- a cheap bottle of grocery store wine. Sometimes I think that all I’m missing is an embrace. Two hands – pressing hard against my back – and a place to rest my head – to remind me that I haven’t lost my mind. That there are things that are solid – tangible -- sacred. That there’s something to believe in.