a sharpened yellow sun

The sun beams and shines through, casting a soft yellow light onto the faux bamboo shade, used as a closet covering that hides all the paraphernalia from our past hobbies, that have come and faded in the past years, a single item tugged or pulled without accurate planning could trigger an avalanche of hoary memorabilia/ on a neighboring end table stands two Russian babushka dolls, simply yet mechanically painted and mass produced by human hands, to the untrained eye may look rather breathtaking/ a sudden sensation travels up and down my leg all the way to my toes, uneasily cringing jumpstarts a rush of hypochondriasis thoughts, “am I dying?”, “is this a heart attack?”, “a blood clot breaking free in route to my heart?”, forcing myself to think of a more idealistic happening, the first scene that comes to mind, is the unique joy of opening a brand new box of pencils, the aroma of red cedar gently brushes your nose immediately bum rushed by images of a time when I was so young and innocent, naive, shy, different, isolated, sad, angry, confused… SHIT!, need more positive thinking, I drift back to the pencil, only this time I awkwardly make my way past all of my classmates as the tension and nerves begin to make me physically sick, I finally make my approach to the Bostitch manual pencil sharpener that hung on the bookshelf by the door, everything inside of me working in unison to keep me from fleeing down the stairs and out the side door where earlier we filed in line to take a head count before we entered this hell hole we call a public education schoolhouse, I begin to crank the handle, rough start at first like starting a 1909 automobile or in suspense waiting for the jack-in-the-box to pop out the top with that giant spring up his… I digress. After a few rotations followed a smooth shaving of excess unwanted wood and graphite, I remove the pencil from its tiny wood chipper blowing off the wood chips and dust revealing that perfect point, so overjoyed holding it far away from my face to admire it like a piece of art, picture perfect tip, the shiny green inlay displaying the classic “Dixon Ticonderoga #2 HB soft” all the way to its pink virgin eraser waiting to aid in correcting all of my mistakes, at this moment I have forgotten that I was locked in a classroom filled with my so-called peers that I really didn’t care for, thrown on top of it all stood a teacher that everyone loved and had special relationships with except for me, I just didn’t see what they all saw, but at this moment I am happily alone inside of my head, until rudely asked to please take a seat/ I am now back to earth and that tingling sensation in my leg is long forgotten, as I watch the curtains flow, as the wind seemingly systematically blowing off of the ocean coming in from the Northeast straight through my window as if it was only meant for me, to cool my face from the warming setting sun that cast on me from the Western facing window, now a brighter yellow than it was when it had been projecting shadows on my faux bamboo shade, is now casting a warm light on my face like a neatly rolled up hot towel compress except this,        this is MY first class flight, as I wouldn’t change this moment for anything in the world, right now, so beautiful,           I think I’ll write this down…. with a freshly sharpened pencil