The Fog

Tuesday, July 27

By Annelia Vakrinou

I should be doing something.

The realisation just bangs the door of my brain repeatedly, like an ex-spouse begging for remorse and forgiveness, but I am not letting it in. The purple wave of fog that has numbed all my nerve receptors is completely ignoring any sort of disruption or snap back to reality and lies almost senseless on the floor of my head, messing with the light switch of my mood. Much like my actual, real self.

Like a starfish washed ashore, I gaze at the white sky of my bedroom, parcels of it being sparingly lit by the passing cars, carrying people that are probably going somewhere specific. Or perhaps they are lost. Although you cannot be lost if you are not going somewhere specific. Regardless, to me, they seem much more productive than myself. Socialising, going to a late shift or returning from a lesson signifies that there is motion, a certain pace in your life at that moment in time, something I currently lack and it’s evidently taking a toll on me.

In times like these, one could message a friend. Not to go out, even just to converse. That is, if you haven’t convinced yourself that everyone hates you. The screen of my phone buzzes on the rhythm of my notifications, but I don’t bother getting up from my wake paralysis to check if it’s my best friend, mother, boyfriend, or just another spam e-mail for a university I can’t afford to go to even if I sold a kidney.

Or maybe I could afford it if I was actually studying rather than aimlessly pitying my useless, slacking self that is staring at the switched-off lightbulb on her ceiling. “If you work hard enough you can definitely get a scholarship” is what I’ve been hearing since I got in high school. Since I lost myself on the way to find my future which, to be completely honest, looks neither bright nor dark. I don’t think it looks like anything for that matter. Maybe a distant speck of dust ready to be blown out of the window with a single sigh.

My heart is racing, pounding from the avalanche of disruptive thoughts of death, destruction, failure and disgust, my head is throbbing in an attempt to keep it together and my eyes are forming little pools of water ready to trickle down my chaffed cheeks letting it all go… in silence. It’s 3 AM and I shouldn’t be awake in the first place as I have a tower of work to do tomorrow. It would be much more acceptable if I was awake and productive: writing, singing, playing my guitar, studying, reading, dreaming, dancing, chatting; living. But right now I feel the most dead one can be whilst still breathing. 

The quiet comprehending of the ending of it all, of how pointless anything I have done or will do is at the grand scheme of the universe and its essence that I am biologically unable to comprehend because it’s infinite. 

Infinity. the Infinity of actions taking place around my motionless body, the infinite dreams and aspirations and goals and feelings and pieces of art being born as I speak to myself in the hope that I will convince my logic to evict the purple fog from my head or at least convince it to get up, open the goddamn door and let the realisation in; let me breathe again, let me talk to the people that love me and explain to them that they are not the reason I hate my reality, that it’s my own head making me sick.

I should be doing something.

Guess I failed at that too.
 

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