I sit in a room, in this empty, dark, limitless space. Alone. Quietly, on a couch, with its cushions to comfort me and make me feel at peace. I’ve tried, and I'm tired. Turning on my side springs a stitch in my chest, but the motion of turning has gone past halfway, and I give in and flop onto my ribs.
Although the comfort of the cushions should be enough, I yearn for the comfort of listening to classical music with her in the corner of a class, on the iced-out floor. The cold didn’t bother me at the time because the only thing I could think of was the warm and blissful piano and violins in my ear.
My thoughts were like a ring of Saturn, finding its way through my ears and, like its dust, clouding my brain for a moment.
I now stare at the nothingness. The warmth of the violins and piano is lost. I'm useless, yet used when needed. Unable to move my muscles without being talked about like a sportsman during the analysis. I try to grasp the energy to do daily tasks like sleeping, eating, and getting up from bed. I brush those concepts, but my hands can't keep holding onto those ideas of normality.
With my mind empty, I try writing down and figuring out my life at the insufferable age of 17. The only thing to be noted is that figuring things out is time-consuming, thought-draining and painful. Knowing what awaits you in your life could be the key; it could be the guidance needed to choose left from right, or this university from that one.
I need to sort myself out. I feel like a suitcase at the end of a holiday in a cheap city, filled to the brim with useless trinkets and shirts never to be worn or used. To unpack the suitcase would be disastrous: to put everything in a category, to go through each and every item, sorting it and labelling it, and making sure it’s found a place. The list is long, and time is short. No one can sort their suitcase while on a couch.
I’m overwhelmed with daily routines and monotonous conversations. "Hi, how was your day?" "No, you can’t go; I dictate your life". A repetition, a broken record playing the same chorus over and over again, a "5 o'clock somewhere".
Monotonous conversations cause boredom, and boredom leads to seeking adventure, which leads to curiosity, which leads to being killed … if you were a cat. Yet we are all cats, believing we live longer than logic, trying to land on all fours to keep our lives stable, and always being attracted to pointers telling us where to go and what to do. We’re all monotonous cats being curious.
To be a cat, you’d need a fellow cat, as stated by society. You’d need a partner to connect with, someone to tether to for reciprocation of neediness, to have the same ideas of love and belonging. We need partners to give us life and energy, someone to rest you on that couch and throw a blanket on you, and to reinforce the fact that being tired on the couch is fine and that they’re there. I don’t have someone like that. I lay alone on my side on the couch, the cold air brushing over me. No blanket, no music, just the cushions.
I try to rise, but the cushions are warming up. They take the shape of my silhouette, drawing me closer to the cracks and crevices of the couch. I can’t rise. As my head turns and tries to look for someone, for anyone out there, the cold air dances on my skin and lifts up every hair and raises every bump. When my eyes focus forward, I see a boy. He’s small and chubby. The boy smiles from ear to ear, like the Cheshire cat. He giggles, and his belly jiggles. He’s happy. The boy pulls out a mirror. Within the mirror lies a creature of hatred and disgust toward all in its path, including itself. It’s a demon; it’s me.
I despise the features of the demon; its dry, ashy skin that can never be fixed with cream nor confidence. The demon’s messy hair, whenever cut, never seems to please anyone. Its belly is glutinous and greedy, with the world at its hips and the ocean waving in its gut. I’ve tried to fix it all; but to try is tiring, and to not try at all is tempting.
As the warmth of the cushions eats me alive and the silhouette starts to fade, I sigh a goodbye to the boy with the mirror, slipping into the cushions of the couch.
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