It’s Monday morning, the first official day of my creative writing degree. My room is filled with the hum of motors and the trickling of water; my fish are in darkness. My mind is as foggy as it is outside the large window that lay witness to the whooshing cars speeding from or to their destination; I am waiting for my meds to slap the siren into my jaw. There is a surrounding emptiness, a vacancy, which when not filled with incessant voices or the perpetual pitch of tinnitus, feels almost rebellious; I enjoy it before fear fills the shrieking silence. I want to shrug the nonchalant resting on my shoulders, resting there like tar, tacky and belligerent-black. The fuse has been lit, but the spark is still; tick-toc tick-toc; drip… drip; that moment when the carriage reaches the apex just before hurtling downward and your belly revolts; weightless, peaceful, serene; scary.
Maybe the comfort I feel reminds me of my days spent amusing myself while my mother was occupied with not being motherly; I look to the ghost reflected to me on my screen and I want to ask its age; I want to ask if things get better than this; I want to ask: are we there yet? I’m at the start-line with silent cheers and devotion with invitation resting on invitation but no hand to hold; dare I ask.
Leave a Reply
You must be logged in to post a comment.