Contained AIR

She'd forgotten. She wasn't sure anymore. "I am a writer?" "I am a writer." "I AM a writer!"
Her lips parted and her chin lifted slightly, to the left as she despised the open wall to the right. In her head there was a bubble and then 12 and they'd all appeared so suddenly and yet not. They had found a home within a parking lot on South Street on that lonely Tuesday night. Where had they come from she'd wondered as she shuffled her heels across the gaps in the sidewalk, picking up bits of slippery gum wads and discarded cigarettes and Starbucks cups.
The thing was, the bubbles were real. She'd stood silently for a good 3 and 3/4 minutes staring at them as they drifted through the air. Bubbles from heaven she'd thought, but then laughed, "too easy" she'd thought to herself. "Too simple 'make me feel like there's a higher meaning-ey'".
She'd forgotten about the bubbles for a good two weeks or so before they had crept back into her train of thought.
Bubbles man. What can you make of that? Somewhere between "one more for the night" and insanity is art, is brilliance, is sunsets stretching legs between tickling fingertips and swingsets.
From here until tomorrow she decided she'd just grow her bones, set her heart to the tempo of grinding teeth and ponder a time when what mattered wasn't where the bubbles came from but rather that they were there to keep her company at all. She needed those bubbles now, too bad they'd decided to show up weeks ago.