Writers Jam

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A certain heaviness in my chest brings my wandering consciousness to a stop. The first thing I notice is that my breath is stifled and my head feels heavier than usual; the second is undeniably hard not to take notice of… undeniable darkness… A darkness so complete it feels almost alive. A darkness, which thankfully, is easy on the eyes. It takes me a while to collect my thoughts and decide upon the further course of action. I rouse myself slowly from the chair I’d been sitting in- practically dragging myself to the window- every step slow and sluggish. With effort, I stretch out my unwilling hand and open the window up a crack.

The breeze, sharp and cool, slips in, making the hair on my forearm stand. The breeze brushes past me, like a forgotten memory once held dear, heartbreaking in its tenderness. I welcome the fresh air and let it spill into my stagnant room. I push the window open wider and take a deep breath in, trying to fill my hollow self with its intangible weight.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I think. I was going to mean something in this world. I was supposed to matter. To leave a mark, to change something, anything. To prove that I had lived. But I didn’t. I saved myself the trouble. I distanced myself from friends and family and any opportunity that might have had an impact on the course of my life. I was scared. I was ashamed of doing anything that made me feel small. And the more I avoided feeling small, the smaller I became. I left crowds and intimate gatherings full of people who asked me how I’d been and what I’d been up to. What could I have told them? There was nothing to share. Whatever joy I had experienced before dissipated until it became a ghostly echo of a life I could no longer claim.

I don’t remember the person I was back then. I couldn’t have recognized her if she stared me in the eye. She wouldn’t either, only if she’d known! Only if she’d stopped me in my attempt to erase whatever remained of me. Of us. Only if she’d ripped the shovel away from my hands as I dug the collective graves of who I was and who I had become.Only if she’d screamed loud enough to bring me to a halt. But how could she? How could she ever have stopped me from becoming this half-breathing, half-existing object in my room?

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