Foreign Land

My side of the bed definitely leans downhill.
The whole house, in fact, seems tipped into the center of itself. It's old so I can forgive and, for the most part, not really be bothered by it. But I'm not sleeping well, solidly, through the night. When I wake up my back is sore and stiff like I've been clinging to the side of a cliff.

And I'm turning white again.
I have vitiligo, a skin pigmentation disorder that serves as a distinct visual measurement of my stress level.
I am caucasian, "white." But you don't realize how not-white you are until you really go white, in odd Rorschachian patches, -- albino spots. I have been all sorts of beiges, linens, and when I used to lifeguard my skin was the color of New England beach sand-- that is, an amalgam of the teeniest black silicas, smoky quartz, pink granite, garnet, mica, when dissected in the palm of your hand (which would remain its true pink, remarkably lined self, regardless of the sun).

"My" side of the bed.
We do get used to that specific territory. I don't think it's just me. Lil even offered to change sides with me, said she would "sleep downhill." The mattress would be compressed into different topographies. The whole opposite side of the room was over there. The horizon line would be altered and the sunrise would occur in an infinitesimally different angle to my line of sight, along with the moon buzzing like an electric tranformer overhead each night-- just slightly askew.