THE CYCLE

I look around, and there is no one left for me to neglect now. No one is "doing me wrong," and there are no unfortunate circumstances laid out in front of my face like parts of a puzzle hiding a conspiracy against me. I wish living in my head could be so easy. At my request, people no longer come near. Everything in this room is sordid to the touch- damp and without scent or taste each day and night. Time for me is a thing covered in sweat, a thing bathed in fear, and time in this room has given way to me swearing of how I can see hues of actual colors upon the stained gray walls- "ghosts" I call them. Within the hues are features of the faces of people who once held their hands out to me. A small part of me fights to keep what memories I have of them together, why, I do not know. I feel my heart racing against the brutal morning heat surrounding my body, and against the humidity seeping through cracks of the basement door. The stinking heat covers and agonizes my mind, making certain I cannot sleep.

This room is part of a house that sits in the middle of the business district of town, which for this moment is still. Through stale air and rotten glass, I see parked cars on the street outside covered in pollen dust from the burned shrubbery nearby. It rains so little here in summer. At this early morning hour, no humans are in sight as of yet. I know this lull- this absence of humanity- will not last long, simply because I wish the quiet could go on forever. I close my eyes and dream of how I no longer have to contend with anyone out there, and I can sense that sweet deliverance is on the vista. Despite air blowing from the miniature fan beside me that came along with my leasing of this room, sweat continues to pour down my forehead and off my nose, trying in vain to cool my overheated thoughts. I cannot remember the last time I slept through the night without suddenly awakening in fear of missing the end of this world. When the end does come, I want to see it with my eyes and soul wide open.

I am no longer fortunate to awaken at dawn and face the pressure of joining other humans outside going about the business of another day full of grand possibilities. I have flashes here and there, remembering days when there was not an apprehensive loin in my body. At a time I should have been more aware of my surroundings, I was either too busy looking up and wondering where raindrops really came from, or too busy looking down at the ground, fascinated with my own shadow and living on a private globe where I made all the decisions. I watch out the window now, as the travels of humans begin slowly at first, with the exact same people holding keys to their establishments arriving at nearly the same time each working day during the week. Other office workers follow them, who are always smartly dressed and eager. They remind me of me in my former life- up early and impatient to please everyone but myself. My problem was I never realized how the people I wanted to please never had me in mind for anything. That is the story of my former life- one big meaningless void. Sitting in the bright stench of this basement room is not a cause for bouncing merrily down the dead end road of pleasing anyone else but me. During these sullen days, I rise each morning to realize my appeals for a final escape have yet gone unheard, but I am sustained by the hope that my time may be near.