it's not the fever rush anymore. it doesn't have much to do with how i feel. it's not that i don't have things to say, or that i haven't been saying them. just not here, now. why?
there is a small sunporch behind my eyes where Inertia lives, taking up space that causes tension headaches. she is not kind or good, but she is the most popular in class and i want to be her because she's pretty and she doesn't have to try. she can sit and play make believe for hours, for years, and never look up. she can let the world go by, blithe and glassy-eyed, staring momentarily out the windows before turning back to what's inside. she wraps herself in blankets and hibernates: the sleep of the snow queen.
unfortunately, time catches up. it breaks a window and reaches in to shake her so hard it hurts. the pain in her neck spreads like tributaries down every limb. it is so overwhelming that she shuts her eyes weakly and waits. when it subsides, she cannot find herself.
time gripped me by the shoulders, whispered irrevocable words. "your father will die," he said. not today, or tomorrow, but someday. "we all die," that bastard shook into me. "even fathers."
i haven't found my reply.
yet.
