misha writes. duh.

i.

The business of writing is telling the truth. The truth is, it’s not enough. The truth is, she didn’t want to be a two. It bored her. The  possession of it. This time it was different, but the same. It was more, but it still wasn’t enough. 

ii.

She had forgotten what it’s like to lose herself in a dark bar. LA bars are too bright. Everybody wants to be seen. There’s no magic. No Abracadabra. No disappearing acts. She hid in the dive bar on the lower east side, and floated around all night, drinking, and dancing, and flirting, until she found herself in the disgusting bathroom at 3 am, staring at her reflection in the mirror, at the stranger with a smile on her face. Somehow, she had found herself again.

iii.

It was the first flight she had been awake for in a long time. Staring out the window, seeing everything, but nothing really, just the patchwork that amounts to parcels of land, she felt insignificant. The last time she had felt this way was the earthquake. The world can shake for everybody. It doesn’t discriminate. And up that high, nobody stands out.