tatami

August 10th, 2017

THE MORNING.

I awake from the sound of the ruffles above me. A body, not long ago dormant and calm, shifts slowly with cracking joints into an upright position. With a big yawn and arms being pulled upward like a puppet on strings, tiny droplets of tears stream down her soft cheeks. The sleepy eyes, now glassy, open and look around. I am underneath, all crawled up and achy from the ramp-like shape of the surface. An attempt to stretch my legs is halted by the boundaries of the armrest. I awake, without an alarm clock, just like every morning.

 

The descent from the bunk bed, on down to the floor. A quick glance at my sleep-filled body, and the routine of the day begins. I lay at rest, simply observing the movements. A private show, of the start of the day. The innocence dripping off her body. Finally, I rise and get dressed, a mere exchange of words and we go our own ways. I enter the sleepy city. It’s almost 9 in the morning, and I bask in the cloudiness of the faces surrounding me. The city, its own language translates to the countryside where I live. Just like the fog that rolls over the meadows and fields, and the sun pushing through the suspended vapor. In the city, in the morning, it is the same. Exchange the fog for smog, and the tranquility of the sun translates itself to faces. Still to be awoken by the stress of the day, still partially dreaming about projections which keeps man going. I walk through the jungle of limbs, going my own way, back home.

 

NOON. I enter my house, with its residents sleepy as ever. Already awoken afore, I proceed to the kitchen to make a fresh batch of coffee and breakfast. My mother, awoken by my early presence descends the stairs and walks over to me. She clearly sees that I’ve been bitten by something, and she’s seen this before. Yet again, she asks the wrong questions at the wrong time and I gnarl back at her, in a snappy fashion which I’ve been accustomed to for the past 6 years. I do, however, take the time to eat breakfast together. But I sit there, physically, and wish to be somewhere else. I enter my room and sit at my desk. Gather out my books and start working. I have this picture, of her. In it, she looks straight in the camera, tired and clearly fragile, but beautiful as ever. The half-forced smile, the tired eyes of recent battles and the batch of next to come. My head boils, again, and I look at my hands, in despair. I flip a page and soak up the letters.

 

THE EVENING. I sit at my desk, unmoved, untouched, ever so fragile and weak. The feeling in my stomach hasn’t left me for days. I listen to voices in my head whispering “it’s going to be okay”. I feel alone, unreliable and unhappy. If this is what it’s supposed to be like, then take my tomorrow, and the days after that. It should be around dinner time, and I remained locked, in an open prison cell. Slowly, I succumb into dark thoughts, far away projections and anger. Disbelief and pain, crawling over my skin. I will never be like them, for I wish to be one so much. Let me just simply return. Step back in time. Give me that chance, once again, so I can prove to her that beauty in the world is better shared. I sit in the middle of my room, and I simply reach out around me. I can grab almost anything I want. I become stubborn, I feel the passion flowing through my veins, to get up and show myself, the better, the stronger and the more honest me. But then, I lose this thought quickly, and I descend back, into the darkness. It’s just me, on my tatami, with the walls around me collapsed. Like leaves in autumn, once vivid and green, now brown and dead. But autumn can be nice too. Just not, alone.