She held on to the chair as if to feel she was still in this reality, searching for stability while her world was tumbling to the ground. Her eyes grew narrow and her lips parted as if words were coming out but silence settled between her and the walls. Like a trembling leaf falling exquisitely from the tree, surrendering herself to the cycle of what must be, she gasped and lost all relation to the world.
Lights were flickering by and people were moving fast, like in those photographs where everything is hazy leaving a string of light, surrounding that one person standing still, lost in the only familiar place they could find. The crowd kept on brushing her sides, violating her body with their elbows and fingers, almost as if to whisk her back in, but she couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe. Everything that was held by her flesh and bones was hollow.
Try and imagine, close your eyes and feel it, a big bushy garden torn apart by dead roses and oozing thorns, cradling a old house with cracks nibbling on its edges. Now imagine yourself opening the door, slowly as it squeaks, and squint your eyes to feel the dark. Can you see yourself in that vast empty hallway? Can you detect the magnitude of the ghosts lashing against the walls not being able to get through? Can you see the light under the crumbling doors not being able to reach the doorknob? Can you feel their eyes watching you as you just turn around yourself confused, mildly scared but mostly lost?
She tried to hold on to her pen again, write away the words festering in her taste buds, rotting ever since she could remember, turning her breathe sour with rage.
Her words didn’t make sense; they didn’t collide into an orbit of metaphors and feelings. They just floated on a piece of wet paper and dried ink, bewildered not knowing if they had a purpose, not knowing if they meant well or were evoked to wound. But she kept on writing and writing, hoping that they would build up into a paragraph, a phrase, any similarity of an explanation.