White Blank Page

So many days, running past me, whirling like autumn winds and it's too soon, too quick, too overwhelming. I tumble along the rip tide and try to stay up long enough for air but I am not allowed the time to digest, to stare at any sort of paper where I may turn the confusion to words, to make sense of the madness, the impressions. I mill in crowds before stages of loud music and have so much to say but no space in which to say it. Nights are late, sleep is instant and I pass too many hours in beds that aren't mine; I am never alone (I'm alone all the time). Up and on to the next. I jot down notes in my phone and hope I will remember after the intoxications have passed, the night.

After a week of clouds and rain and impending mud, the sun broke through and warmed my shoulders as I sat in the grass, keeping beat. It shone undiscriminating on the crowd of my supposedly like-mindeds. But I find no comfort in togetherness. I writhe anxiously as I look over the field, the club, the tram, the street. The closer you are to me, the more I close my skin around me, the further away I feel.

I took a bus across the bridge the other day. For a brief second, the sun shone on the sea, which glittered and sparkled in the distance, at the edge of the city. I thought, I might jump off this bridge, and swim out into the ocean, until I, might glitter, too.