Greetings from a former tenant
Photo by www.danielmaroti.com
by James Weir
Dear M.,
Salutations from the other side of the world. Seven thousand miles later and it feels like my head has been put into a vice and shaken like a can of paint. The scenery has changed, the air here is thick with pollution and the noise of the busy streets is loud, even twelve floors closer to this grey, Chinese sky.
It’s only been three days, but America feels far, far away, and though I don’t mean to say that I wish I was back, that I wish things were different, I do feel strange here. It is hard to sleep, though I imagine that will pass. My days end early and in a cloudy fog of jet lag and alcohol. I fall asleep soundly and quickly only to wake at strange times of the night, or early in the morning, half a day ahead of everyone I’ve known.
I toss, I turn. I fall back asleep, fitfully, and I wake the same. I look out the window at the lights from the buildings, at the cars passing slowly. Taxi’s, mostly. When the sun rises around six I watch it come quickly. Then I sleep again. I close my eyes and pretend that it is nighttime. In these glimpses of sleep I have vivid dreams, the kind that come quickly and linger for awhile, in those sandy eyed moments where everything is warm and new, when the day hasn’t begun and yesterday isn’t quite finished.
