Mess

The doorbell rings. I live next door, he says, and my Sunday morning brain cannot quickly enough arrange its excuses properly. Stop smoking indoors, he says, keep singing. I retreat into the apartment and begin tearing at the seams, suddenly uncomfortable in my one sanctuary, the one place I thought remained safe. The walls dissolve; it is winter outside. In my fantasy, I tear out all the books from their covers, let it rain pages and print, it soothes me. In reality, I simply make a mess and try to learn a lesson.

An airplane ticket lies waiting in my inbox. It whispers of Left Bank cafés and a language that sings. It is close enough to touch and real enough to believe in. As I tumble down the rabbit hole and grasp desperately at roots and straws, at least that ticket beams at me on the other side of the little door. To travel is to live. I will find the key, I will drink the poison. I will build the walls, again.