I woke up, then opened the door. The smell of the rest of the house inhabited my chest with an uneasy nostalgia. If it kept on creeping back to me in this way, I'm not so sure if I could really call it that. This dullness is hardly a memory. Spending day after day with my eyes half shut, seeing the specks in everything drifting about, quickly but quietly, brings me back to a familiar scenery.
The feeling sits in me. It hangs there, an unswallowed fishbone. There's no novelty to this routine. I look out the window and watch people pass by. There's someone walking their dog. Someone with slicked up hair and in sportswear. An older lady slowly walks with a tote bag slung over her shoulder. I wonder if she's gotten back or is just about to go somewhere. Someone's carrying a bright blue water dispenser all while holding so many things on only that side of their body. A mom and her baby are spending time together. I see someone with a paintbrush and white paint.
I go about drinking a cup of milk. My automated thumb swipes upward, my face not matching up to what my mind thinks. I lose track of time reading the thoughts splayed before me. Food doesn't have much of a taste. I finish. Everyone is doing their own thing. I suppose I should, too. The sponges hug and rinse my dirty hands.
"Let's have you all scrubbed up, little dish. I'll make you all nice and shiny again."
They lay comfortably to dry. I wipe the counter. I look back at the stainless steel. It says nothing back. I faintly curve my lips. I don't have the energy to smile. The jostling water is shaped by its container. I wait for the whistling kettle, today's only incoming call, and pick up.
The water trickles down like usual. Soap, then water. Teeth, spit, gargle. Then, dry, clean clothes. There aren't much thoughts besides the next step. Anticipatingly prepared for today's scheduled meeting. It's postponed today. It'll be tomorrow, instead. Oh, okay. That seems to be my only reaction to things recently. It's tiring to type. To make it visible, coherent. Understandable, when… when. My train of thought departs again.
I am sure there is still more pain to come. I close my eyes. I suppose it's alright. If it makes more room for understanding, then, I hope so. It's not right I'm lying down like this. I'm being complacent, comfortable, static. I could be doing something. I should be doing something. Speaking up, being there, fighting for a cause, something more important. I'm always thinking about myself.
I'm ashamed of the person I've become.
I see them happy. This is my contentment.
No one is watching. I am alone in my room again.
☁️