“Sometimes, the only way to make your dreams come true is to shatter them.”
― Pepper Winters, Twisted Together
For the last three hours I’ve been trying to finish the last hundred pages of the book Wild. Don’t get me wrong, I love the book and Cheryl’s writing style, but my mind keeps wandering off. No matter how hard I try to distract myself, myriads of thoughts keep interrupting my concentration.
Right now, in this precise moment, as I’m writing this, I can’t help but wonder if I’ve broken my dishwasher. It’s been “ventilating” for half an hour and it’s full of foam. I have a glass container for the dish soap which I thought could need a wash. Apparently, I should have rinsed it better before putting it in the dishwasher.
Today is the day I’m going to get my second shot. I’m so nervous, I’m having a hard time writing in readable calligraphy and as already mentioned, my head is all over the place. I need to refill the soap in the shower, my hair is still wet, and I should start looking for a new job. If I only knew what to do. Where is the manual for my life? There are so many rumours about the vaccine that even though I have my reasons to get it, I’m really losing my shit over here. What if this shitty text is the last thing I’m going to write? Will I ever finish my book? Why the hell am I still so concerned to make everyone happy but me? Someone said, “You are going to die if you get the second shot”. The sentence is still echoing in my head. Like my dishwasher, one more thing I clearly don’t have control over. I have to wait. Schrödinger’s dishwasher. Schrödinger’s humans. Are we alive? So many thoughts about the past, so many about the future. Where did my present me go?
Maybe I should spend the next few hours sitting on the floor holding myself. Someone has to do it. Someone has to tell me that everything will be fine. I’m starving for the warmth of another body. Warm skin pressing against mine, fighting the frozen cold coming from inside me. Not even a hot shower could annihilate that icy feeling inside, while my body struggles to push away that burning sensation of my skin which is slowly suffocating me. I washed my face a hundred times wrangling against something, hoping it will make it better.
My apartment still doesn’t feel mine – technically it’s not because I pay rent, however it should be a sign of me being a grown up, but I still feel like a child. A child who always had to care for others, a child who always had to survive alone in this wilderness we call world. An over 30-year-old child, with a shitty job and a shitty apartment. Alone. So where is the part when I’ll feel like a grown up? When will the time come for me to not feel scared anymore?
The buzzing of the dishwasher just changed into a wild ripple. A good sign. Life goes on. The dishwasher will be ok. Everything will be ok.
Aromatic deception 