May 2, 2025 – around 3:48 a.m. The clock’s hands press like fingers around my neck, yet I feel nothing. Seconds, minutes, hours, days pass by—fog steaming the windows and my spectacles. The pain sits stagnant, as calm as water in a mug. I wait for everyone to fall asleep so I can light a cigarette and sit on a crooked, dusty wooden chair. They say that if you wake and find a new cobweb, a spirit has visited you—I always hope it’s you, here to take me away and keep me safe again. The tobacco burns; the smoke stings the back of my eyes, sending pain through various parts of my being. I stub the cigarette out on the chair and wave away the smoke—hoping no one smells it. I wish I could wave away the pain and sorrow just as easily.
July 27, 2025 – 4:30 p.m. Standing in a parking lot with groceries, I search for my car keys. A child approaches and asks about the scars on my neck. I simply reply that my skin was acting up. He says, “I hope it never acts up again,” hands me a toy, and walks away. It’s monsoon season now—I notice the subtle changes. I hope to witness more monsoons again.
Creator of this post? You can edit it here using the edit code you chose while posting.