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Again, I am unmoving. Again, a weightless heaviness seizes my body. Again, my mind is evaporating out the pores of my clammy skin, my body anchored to the bed. |
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A cool wash of morning light is spilling through a gap in the curtained window. It brightens the off-white walls and popcorn ceiling of this cluttered bedroom with a clean sky-blue. A precarious mountain of laundry baskets barricade a set of mirror, sliding doors to a closet inaccessible for months. Tan, stepping stones of carpet float in a sea of incomplete projects, unfinished books, and their trailed off thoughts. The hum of the air-conditioning unit is momentarily drowned out by the rattling of windows, as a low-flying helicopter passes overhead. |
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Emptiness fills me. I feel it, obscure and viscous. It clogs my mental pathways and slows my motions, proliferating, corrupting. The sensations on my flesh, the hooks in my attention, the grinding of my cognition—these maddening grainules of daily sand, now a summoned storm of erosion upon me. Because emptiness is slow, there is also the void expanse yet reached. There is no thick hollowness to anchor me in space, in time. I escape the storm in the hourglass and flutter into a future hour. The details are too slippery to grasp, so nothing is retained. It's amnesiac teleportation, through a tunnel of fluffy, drowsy static. What I'm feeling the most right now, though, is the hazy veil of frozen loneliness. Reality is still a blur of vague suggesstions within the mist, but my mind is sharply aware. These are the eons when my senses dull or when my body sinks beneath me like quick-sand. My consciousness unplugs, and I either float away, like a balloon, or I recede backwards into the depths of an emptier space, like reclining into an autopilot seat. |
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I feel lost and adrift yet accustomed to this mundane strangeness. It is within the bounds of my being, so I know I'm still me. Though, right now, I am its, more than it is mine. |
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Blindly reaching for my phone, my arm stiffens with a painful tingle. The makeshift nightstand—an open, folding table wobbles, my healing wrist having bumped it. An exasperated sigh is pushed through my clenched teeth. My throbbing wrist is gingerly held to my chest. From a heap of books on the crowded table, a neat stack of eight, mint tins topples. The pain and tinkly clatter summons a surprising burst of energy—though, impulsive and intense. An urge for destruction whips wildly inside my body, but I coil the lash back—a compressed spring, a biding snake. I try to submerge myself in calm, but I feel more coated than rinsed. For a moment, I consider recycling the tins, but I'm not convinced: Even after being sorted at a recycling center, they'd probably end up in a landfill anyway. I've also kept them this long for repurposing and crafts, so I might as well continue holding onto them. |
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My body lies still for several moments. It's not difficult, with how far it's sunk below the surface of lapping blankets. I feel dizzy yet calm and content, in this impossibly rocking bed. It feels like hours have passed, before I eventually gather the motivation and strength to blindly reach for my phone again. My wrist is unscathed, this time, but my fingers find my phone's specific spot amongst the clutter empty. My eyes confirm that it is indeed missing. My head weakly peers over the bed. It's not beneath the table either. I'm going to have to actually search for it. |
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From this cradling coffin, I emerge. The ordinary itch to scan my surroundings I resist. An unneccessary dread is conjured by this conscious effort, but it doesn't hold a candle to the paralysis of confronting an unmistakable fright, in dim confinements, at close proximity, with this vulnerable vessel. I lock my eyes onto a frayed hole on one of the layering blankets. I'm eager to be absorbed in its details. Its diameter is half a centimeter, and it definitely has rabbit origins—perhaps, a defiant nibble of displeasure during a moment of cuddling. My hands blindly sweep beneath the blankets for my phone, as I speculate which bunny this autograph belongs to. |
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The timid search finds no cold, flat, rectangle of plastic. Another aircraft passes low overhead, rumbling the room. It sounds large and oppressive. The nearby base must be doing drills again. I wonder if they receive noise complaints from this town. I imagine there to be few, if any. During this time of day, many people are not home to hear. Instead, they're tuning out the traffic of the road or airport, conditioned from remaining in a sound-polluted city of medicine, military, money, and measured migration. All around, the city spreads, and its pollution proliferates. Its interference festers, molding minds. A breath of clarity wanders close, and I inhale it deep, expelling the claustrophobic city occupying my spirit, coming back down to my cocoon. How much time has passed without me? |
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I pull back the curtain—a dark blanket draped over the heat-cracked blinds—and peer out the window. Below, seventeen of the twenty, visible, parking spaces are empty. My leased car naps in blinding sunshine, beneath a dull veil of drowsy pollen. The color of light, lot vacancy, and lack of impatient horns suggests that it's around noontime. The time of day is suddenly sobering, as I remember the air-conditioner running all night. I check the drip bucket, and it's thankfully not overflowing. I'm a little surprised by the energy instilled by such a small gratitude and use it to propel myself into a positive pace. |
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I turn off the air-conditioner and position the the drip-hose into a nearby, empty vase for any remaining dribbles. It takes a few attempts to find the safest stance to lift the filled bucket. I should've asked him to empty it before leaving, so it wouldn't be so full. I take my time, to not splash any musty water anywhere. Dumping it down the tub drain is awkward, though. I am more careful with my wrist than the bucket, and the water contaminates me. It's too much effort to protect the invigorating optimism I just found, so, instead, I reach for anxiety—familiar, custom-fit, and always on-hand. I just need to correct the error, so it's satiated. |
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"Just going to take a quick shower. Then, everything'll be fine again. Get the day started, being nice and clean. Clean body; Clean mind." I tether my racing thoughts down, by thinking aloud, transmuting them into something more tangible, mortal. |
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Several minutes have elapsed, before I notice my light-headedness. I try opening the window and finishing the shower in cold water, but the humidity of steam and outside weather refuse to be cast out at my pace. Imagining him discovering me passed out in the tub is enough to quell my stubborness about an incomplete cleanse. I exit the tub, careful not to slip, and wobble into our room. Soapy and dizzy, I fall into the bed. My breaths feel empty, and the nausea is overwhelming. I can't help but feel silly and pathetic for forgetting to eat before showering and the need to do so. And yet, even on the verge of losing consciousness, I can't help but fixate on my unclean skin and the now dampening sheets. |
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Food does the body and mind good. It's also easier to leave the bed, now that I've been up and about already. I pad into the kitchen, the bunnies still hearing my presence. I stare blankly into the fridge and freezer, before choosing the only breakfast choice. I entertain the idea of going to the groccery, to buy kale and fruit for a healthy smoothie, like I used to, as two frozen waffles turn golden in the toaster. Like a roly-poly, I curl up, beneath the beckoning blankets, until the resounding ding. |
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"Ignoring is futile. The inevitable is just delayed." |
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My heart sinks, anchoring my body to the bed. My eyes shut, protecting my vulnerable insides. My head burrows into the pillow, as a precaution. My mind flees, hiding in a far-off, irrelevant corner of geology trivia. |
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Being a well-mannered host is the polite thing to do. |
 | "The friction of your hesistance is audible. The emotional motivation and focused intention behind your choice is validating, thank you." |
