You have a serendipitous morning, the middle-aged man screams, and it’s not your metaphorical wake-up call. There’s glee for the unknown; the double-edged sword is not pointing at you but at the whimsical cornfield in front. The fridge magnets lie low this morning, so the sweep is loud and clear. Dust echoes down the countertop. What you want lies deeper than the 10-year-old jellybean box in your side drawer, kept only for memories and wonder. But what’s funny is that what you want is out in the open yet hidden inside, deeper than that box of jelly beans. The yogurt, half-frozen and with icicles forming on it, looks scrambled.
You forget the invitation of the earthen vessel, but car seats will remind you of it. The full black look doesn’t do too much, but it certainly hides your passion and your eventual all-consuming fear. It’s funny to have your day go in a chronological order. Your unmaking starts at 8:32, and the scabs on your fingertips grow deeper and deeper until they turn into the scabs of your heart. Instead of letting that happen, you follow the calorie and time poster till your dry mouth reaches for the silty water, and everything restarts (or you want it to, because you know it’s just imagination; the weariness doesn’t go unnoticed). You count the time: 25 minutes in which you wish you could go to the other world, caramel and no lemons. But the glacial acetic acid gets to your head and you’re nauseous again, clutching your mouth.
The feeling of inadequacy lingers in the air, and it feels like the tornado is hitting only you. The blood in your hands is the only thing that doesn’t feel out of place. The workplace comparison featuring you seems like their passion, but your passion isn’t too far. The next minute, all eyes are on you, and you get to live snippets of a life you’ll never have. When you didn’t want it, it was all yours. You remember. But now you can pretend, and that’s enough. Maybe it’s the sun and the glare is not in your mind but the familiar discomfort inching towards you. Then you remember you can’t say that—your discomfort is someone’s dream.
You open once more, and your heart starts bursting. Paper awaits you, its color reminding you of the fake promises you made. There was a cost to those, but you didn’t pay. So, the next time the middle-aged man screamed, you were at the place where everyone went and everyone came, and this time you had to go. Your friends called it the body bag, and you dragged it (no one helps drag a body). You were wiping the black lines and covering them with the white you pasted on, but the foundation was not secure, and you knew it would come undone anytime. But you took the risk. It was exhausting. The lines were long, and no one except you bore the weight you had prepared. Preparing was not real, and that was when you knew.
This time your ideas were made of copper and suddenly turned green. You were counting and calculating and counting and calculating, and it all ran like the second hand of a clock. No invitations made you follow up, but the place where you were, frogged embroidery made you—each time the threads became more and more twisted, curled in a ball. The roses had now turned plain purple, and one of the burdens was gone. But then you realized the burden of liking something is bigger than the one of not understanding. Then you put on the crumpled clothes in the bucket, and all of your fears were laughing at you for all the reasons you should be laughed at. You now knew what was making you crazy and you never went there again (or is it too soon?). You start again, and the faces laugh at you again. But because your eyes are blurry, you try to open them and find yourself in the place where people come and go again. This time you’re coming back, and the old man screams.