The wind threads through my fingers and wraps around my body, leaving a layer of frost on my skin. It¡¯s numbing, yet that feeling comforts me. This cold, this lack of feeling, makes the world seem peaceful. I¡¯m in love with this numbness, this physical manifestation of apathy. Sometimes, for a few seconds, I close my eyes and listen to the sound of dead leaves crackling under my feet. When I open my eyes, there¡¯s a baby blue sky filled with soft, cottony clouds. It feels like an end of a story, a perfect clichéd tale. That¡¯s when I tell myself that I am content with life and take another step toward home. The wind brushes against me again and the facade is blown away. Little hisses wisp around my head, telling me truths I refuse to admit. They remind me of those little blue pills sealed in an orange container with a white cap. Numbers were engraved on the back of them, marking their artificial power. I look at those pills every night; my fingers pressed against the white cap before screwing the bottle open. And, every night, I let it happen – I let it take my place. The pills were dormant at first, or so I thought. The effects were subtle; I didn¡¯t notice them until I asked myself if it was me at an instance in time. There was no mirror to look at, but the smile on my face told me all I needed to know. Those expressions filled with lies, with a happiness that wasn¡¯t my own. The cynical jokes and smoothly stringed words, which I had no feelings toward and said for reasons I never knew, all of which were never my own – they were the pills¡¯. A breeze passes; a shiver goes down my spine as I take another step forward. I look at my hands as if they aren¡¯t mine, observing their curves and indents. My gait quickens and I reach home; looking over my shoulder, I see that the sky is now azure – cloudless and clear. My heart softens. Under my breath, I ask myself who I am.
And in a whisper against the wind, I reply, ¡°I am.¡±
|