11TH JUNE. 1945hrs
I could barely walk down the small stretch to get to my room. My chest was heaving to the pounding in my head. Images were getting blurry and I could feel the sweat trickle down my sides. The noises were rising to some sort of never-ending crescendo and there were lights everywhere. Everything was just too loud, too bright or damn too scented. My sinuses were flaring up. I could taste everything and it settled heavily on my back palate. I was getting nauseous and scared and tried to quicken my pace to get away from it all. I felt their eyes on me but that was probably a figment of my imagination. I was drifting then falling…slowing down then speeding. I couldn’t handle it. It was all too much.

As the cold water hit my rigid body I felt a soft release, a sigh escape my tight sealed lips. I slowly opened my eyes and accustomed myself to the four walls I had confined myself in. On a normal day, I detest the sight of these four walls-situational hazard of sharing amenities, like the bathroom. But tonight, I was grateful for them. Grateful for the quiet solitude. And I stood there as the water drenched my skin, slowly easing up and letting go of the bundled fists on my side. I wanted to cry but my ducts sort of malfunctioned from all the bullshit my life has been through so I just stood there and stared at space and imagined nothingness. A huge void, an empty abyss. A bottomless pit. I wanted to shout but again, situational hazards of sharing. So I just hummed. Not to any particular tune but to the sound of the water trickling down my skin. I hummed as to how it flowed from the faucet above my head or how it smacked the floor, the walls, the pain and fear. I do not know for how long I stood in there and I didn’t care either how long it took. I stood in that comatose state for so long my limbs felt numb and icy. I was a walking icicle. But I was calm, my anxiety had passed and I could breathe again. I could breathe again.

Ok. Writing all that, I don’t think it makes sense.Someone once said it felt shitty when they wrote about themselves. I feel psychotic. Like I can’t associate or relate with this person I am talking of even though I live inside of her, take all of her rage at three am and spin it into words. I don’t understand her even though I smile through her eyes and pick her up from bed every morning to go through each new day like the warrior princess she is-an atomic bomb that explodes in various scents of lavender, sheer and cocoa butter with earthy undertones. Reading through it detaches me from her and I just want to reach across her keyboard, take her fast-paced fingers, lace them with mine and hold on to her. She looks fragile underneath her toned limbs and fighter’s physic. She looks pale underneath all the color and red coursing through her veins. She looks tired behind the clear, uppity, full of life eyes of hers, big as saucers and can see all the way up to the moon and its ridges and craters. She looks cold even as the heat radiate from her supple, soft skin, she looks like the very oxymoron she lives every day, only difference tonight being she is the opposite of it. Tonight, she is the moon behind the sun that she is.

At some point, I dumpster-dived in my closet. Went behind the old jackets and sweaters, further past the ghosts and skeletons and took out my tiny, tiny box with all my feelings and emotions in it. Then I allowed myself to feel all of them for a minute. Maybe two. I allowed myself the chance to be human. My mind raced out to those three am, two am, midnight owls who type away at their keyboards or let their pens bleed and blue, black or red slashes across their whites as words come to life in paper. Those characters pique my interest and on most nights, I find myself sitting on my window frame, feet dangling to the tune of death three floors down but a spirit with no fear and look across the night on who’s lights are still on, or if I will catch a glimpse of a silhouette, hunched over their desks as truth comes face to face with reality.

But not tonight.

Tonight I am just going to curl myself in a tiny ball, stuff all that emotion and feelings in my little box and shove it really far back in my closet. I am going to close my eyes and will my body to listen to my every command. I will order it to warm up, let out a sigh of faked content, close my eyes and empty my mind. I am going to chant that today and yesterday and the days before last that I felt like a train wreck are only fleeting memories and there was something to look forward to just hours away. Then I will slowly count the hours till break of dawn when I will be so exhausted and fall asleep.

How unfortunate would it be to die with an untold story within you!
~Maya Angelou~


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