There are days when everything seems to fall into place, plates sliding together to form a solid surface to steady your feet.  And then there are days when the floor of the ocean cracks, the water drains away, and everything left is barren and empty.  It scares me how much I think of you.  Dependence, even in small degrees, on others makes me anxious.  I don’t want to be disappointed again.

It gets harder to care about anything each day.  Waking up seems like a chore, swinging my legs out of bed is akin to moving a train car with my bare hands.  I spend too much time in my own head and just need someone to pull me out.

You sit with your legs curled up, knees poking over the top of the table.  You look out at me from under your eyebrows, a vain attempt at remaining awake.  The ceiling fan makes clacking sounds above me; I think it’s broken.  The heat is unbearable, a stifling summer night where the cicadas roar as loudly as an oncoming train.  A thin rim of water is all that remains in your glass, the ice long melted.  ”I can’t sleep anymore,” you say to your knees, even as your eyelids droop with fatigue.  I regard you silently, lapping up the final drops of cool water.  ”Go to sleep,” I say, resting my glass against my forehead, trying to alleviate the headache forming there.  ”I’ll be here when you wake.”

The plates of my mind slide over one another, fault lines appearing so suddenly that there is no time to hide.  I have a horrible habit of wallowing in missed opportunities, bathing myself in the what might have been instead of what is.  And what is?  It’s nothing, all that I am doing is of no consequence.  Holding vignettes of days past in my head, precious stones that glitter and knock against one another.  People ask me if I am happy here.  The truth is, I am entirely indifferent.  It’s neither awful nor fantastic, it just is.  At least we have that in common.

I have taken to carrying a notebook with me, so that I may get all these thoughts out of my head.  The feel of pen scratching across paper, crisp pages unsullied by worries.  I miss the feeling of your skin against mine.  It was as comforting as those pages, warm and alive, crushed velvet smooth.  I remember nothing else from our time together, only those moments of physical contact.  It is hard to be alone.  Minutes morph into hours, eyes glaze over and tongue curls inward like a snake.  I am frightened of what will happen when I am touched.

Why do you want to hear my story?

The light shines from your eyes and makes them two glowing headlights.  But then I realize it’s just the glare of the lamp behind you.

No, everything was fine.

Everything.

I was not traumatized.

Did you want me to be?

Please turn off the lamp—it makes you look holy.  I may be a sinner, but you aren’t a saint.

Fact:  I think most of the stuff I write is complete shit compared to other writers with actual books.  Hence the reason why I will never write a book.

What am I waiting for?  I admire those who reach out and grasp life firmly, are so wildly passionate and creative that their soul shines brighter than the sun.  But why can’t I?  Stop wallowing in self-pity.  I want to do so many things, but why wait until I’m older?  Now is as good a time as any.  I will not lean on anyone else.  I will mold and shape my imagination into something tangible, full of sweat and tears and passion.  I will take up my pen and write write write until the ink runs dry and a stack of crisp pages flutters around me to the floor.  I will stop doing nothing.  It’s time to live.

Neighborhood gangs of little boys, tanned arms and legs flying fast down the sidewalk.  A parade of bicycles in the heavy summer night, mixed with joyous shouts and battle cries.  It’s magical.  These diminutive warriors, charging through clouds of fireflies and mosquitos, fiercely preserve youth.  They seem as if they’ll never grow up.  They will break through the barrier between our world and Neverland and drift away.  

Shadow person made of gray, amorphous wisps.  I am insubstantial, blown about by the lightest wind, and full of narcissism and self-deprecation.  I tell myself I will always have my books, and try to immerse myself in their worlds to forget my own.  Bright stars glowing icily in the sky make me sad.  This universe is so infinite and I am so small.  I just need a hand to hold, a shoulder to lean on and someone to pull me out of this quicksand.

She couldn’t remember much about the day of his funeral.  The people melded into a shifting mass, swirling around her and offering meaningless words of sympathy.  She didn’t need their sympathy.  After the tenth person had clasped her hand and told her how sorry they were, she took stock of her emotions.  The only thing she felt was relief.  The brother that had plagued her family for so long finally got what he deserved.  Throughout the funeral, she had to fight to keep a smirk off her face, knowing the disapproving eyes of her relatives would catch her in a second.  Her face was flushed and eyes bright, like an inquisitive bird regarding a gleaming beetle.  If only her mother was still alive.  She’d throw a party instead of a funeral.  When the last person left in a whirl of black and poorly concealed relief, she made the short trudge back to the cemetery.  The rain that had fallen steadily all week was conspicuously absent.  The sun sparkled down on the damp grass and seemed like a sign of approval.  She stopped in front of his tombstone, a small marble affair which her aunt had insisted would be what her mother would’ve wanted.  The smile she had suppressed during the service broke across her face, her teeth gleaming in the afternoon light and making her almost beautiful.  She wanted to scream, wanted to laugh and dance and feel her own pulse thumping in her ears.  ”I’m alive,” she whispered.  She spit on the tombstone and turned toward home.