A few weeks ago, I was sick and running a high fever, and I began writing about how I felt. This is what I created. My mind was a hazy blur from the fever, so I don’t entirely remember writing this, but later, I found it and enjoyed reading it.
I dream about falling asleep. About a whisper that could slide between my cracked lips and ease the burn in my throat. A thought that would turn this raging furnace into a cool, still lake. But I distract myself. I dream of the things I could say, if I could lie under the shadow of a city, and stand on the edge of a green cliff over a sea. But when I close my eyes, the gold in between the cracks of the blinds is dimmed to soft starlight, and I raise my hand, and shadows of lace tattoo my fingers. This is it… the breath, the pulse, between where everything is still and where everything changes and is thrown to chance. A trickle, a drop of water, suspended between a river and a glacier. So we look neither forward nor backward.
Words, pages, white – so much white – and dreams and faces that watch me even when I’m awake. The coolness in the air fights my heavy breath, and lights my fragile, volatile skin.
The light is changing now, deepening to vanilla blue. Hints of violet brush the afternoon and run. If I fell asleep now, I think I would stay here for a long time. I could. I could stop and hold my heartbeat and forget everything forward and behind. Even the sun running down the sky. Or is it ink? I’ve written myself. Am writing myself. It’s getting harder to swallow, and my words blur with the pain of sight. My hands feel the daylight and try to fly, but my heart is so tired and we ache for stillness. I’ll return. This moment will pass, and I will never again be it, remember it. But now… must… sleep