A Day in the Mind of J
He turned over. Blood rushed to his brain fogged with sleep and light met his eyes which do not see but relay information (equilibrium, equilibrium). Rolling off the bed the morning sky pleasantly greeted him. No one was on the road. Birds, bowels, and then a sour, dry taste led him to drink water, now and also throughout the night, many times. Woken in the dark hours of the night, not so pleasant. Cold water hit his throat. Now, nearly knowing every step he takes before he takes it, a routinary being—hardly a visionary (sometimes…) failing to know what they think (don’t care). He knows he wants to go to the beach, or better the mountains, far away from the square mile packed like sardines, who all came to the West after the Natives who were put into reservations but reserve your reservations on the subject. J often thinks of this, his Spanish and Mexican blood.
A square mile, a sandbox of impressions, he thinks. His cold feet slip into his cold shoes. Hardwood floor…creak, creak…the sound does not lie back home, back home so soon but for now, a packed building. No one accompanied him in the lift. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror on his way out of the building. It is instilled in him to hold the door always, whatever the case may be. The light, blinding and bright made him close his eyes. So sensitive are they. Standing before the hundreds of wheels, locked to the ground, he shades his eyes. J drinks water although he doesn’t need to it’s a choice (his kanteen keeps the water ice cold). Sliding the key into the lock, he twisted his hand to free the wheels. Now on his way, he rode down the path to the ocean views. No hurry. Empty roads. The sound of wind and cars. Stay vigilant.
Cold Water
Cold, cold water awakens amidst late afternoon tranquility. I woke up weak, hunger felt by my body teased with dreams of home cooking, carnitas con cebolla cilantro lima y guacamole sensationally felt by the tongue; more so the soul. I drank more water but loud sirens invaded my soundscape, alerting me of a stranger’s emergency and reminding me of his past. padre hijo espíritu santo. La Virgen still on my chest, Guadalupe ingrained, but a facade for me unlike my family.
Michael Bonachea Jaburian is a recent UC Santa Barbara graduate from Pasadena, California. Hoping to pursue law, Jaburian enjoys writing in his free time in addition to experiencing new cuisines, national parks, and his two dogs. Saboreo la vida.