"I take a breath,
pull the air in til there's nothing left.
I'm feeling green,
like teenage lovers between the sheets.

Knuckles clenched to white
as the landing gear detract for flight.
My head's a balloon,
inflating with the altitude.

I watch the patchwork farms
slow fade
into the ocean's arms.
From here they can't see me stare;
the stale taste of recycled air.
Calm down, release your cares;
the stale taste of recycled air."

-The Postal Service

A pile of random zines mysteriously appeared on our coffee table the other night. I used to be a zine addict, but sometime during my second year of college, when I no longer had the time or energy to create my own, my addiction faded and I really haven't even glimpsed one since then. I had kind of forgotten all about them. And now, this mysterious pile of them in our living room.

A lot of them are just amazing and beautiful. There are lovely silkscreened covers and fancy typography and one has a tiny envelope pasted to the inside backcover, with another tiny zine inside, closed up with little silver star sticker. So much energy, and time, and dedication, and creativity put into intricate projects for no real reason whatsoever. I loved this little corner of the world, these people. I miss it all. I remember that there was a time in my life when I actually did things.

Now I just sit around on the couch and read books all day. I don't create anything. Nothing original or interesting comes out of my head.

I can't decide if reading all these mystery zines is making me happy and excited to do something again, or just sad and even more exhausted.

Why do I feel like such an old lady?