When the wooden wind chimes slap like human bones. The doors open and close, squeaking in time with the restless blinds. Every movement creates a reaction. That's why those shaking palm trees outside sound like crashing oceans, the six a.m. mornings make phone calls to hollow ghosts, and why a tiny stream of thoughts sink underground to join heavier rivers.
My hands are cold, so they move like mechanical spiders with many hinges. I roll our future in the dark. I hear my train coming. I feel butterflies in acceptance. I feel scared.
I jump into bed.
My back slams the headboard.
I take it as an omen to quit the self-loathing act.
There I am. A bird in a nest of comfort and solitude. Pleasure and pain advancing and retreating in inverse time like a drifting tide on the sands of guilt. A liberal spoonful of medicine. Mosquito nets hang from each corner of someone's room. There was sweat. There was always sweat when it was good. I'll come to my senses.
We were walking down the sidewalk. My friend tried to get into the passenger seat of a car that didn't appear remotely similar to mine. We were both dazed. The sun was glaring like it always is on those days. "It's better to be lost, then in nine to five misery right? I asked. "Of course." he responded. His certainty in the uncertainty was good for the moment.
The saddest part of a journey is not knowing that it ended a long time ago. That when you miss the sign, you wander down a lesser version of where you'd just been.
