Like a monochrome version of a playschool parachute, a grey, white fabric shakes its way seductively across the sky. Electrons spring to life between the rod iron chair you inhabit and the vast openness, or so it seems when you stare at the sky, especially a grey one, for too long. Things always happen on days like today. There are vague recollections of things that may or may not have happened, of things that may or may not even matter, but you can’t put your finger on it and perhaps that’s why things always seem to happen on days when the cosmic swirl of a milky sky gives you the impression that your karma is being stirred with a spoon. For better or worse.
With only thirty minutes of a lunch break because you drive fifteen just to get away from anyone you may know from work, you may know from anywhere. There’s only time to ponder the soft spots of your memory, spots still tender from the times you were dropped hard onto the cold, hard surface of reality at an early age. And you remember a sort of fuzzy moment where it was made clear that you were a dark person, that a side of you was not right, that perhaps you prefer to be miserable. They assumed this of you, but they didn’t know. They never sat so close, so close to the shore when the ocean was sick, a green churning mass, a tiny thing against a chaotic force. They didn’t know that the salt stinging your face was real, that the green was reflected in your eyes. They didn’t know that the sun, that flighty, affected being, was only a faint mirage.
They didn’t know that raindrops reflected on the ceiling when it rained and you lived by a pond. That the delicate act of prying each tiny shell fragment out of your skin at night, when the moon was shining, was one of silent reverie. Where the recollection of the ocean’s swell, the one you allowed to take you, just a little bit, just for a second before it took you all the way in, rocked you to sleep, sang to you, read you stories after it threw you wildly about in the waves, on the rocks when you were left to your own devices; that it was better than a sunny day where light didn’t expose what needed to be exposed.
And in that tiny space, in that molecule where the gloom allowed you to be who you truly were inside, you wrote a poem, about being in a box, that you knew was there, that you could see through, but couldn’t break. No one else saw it, no one else admitted it was there, but it was there. They hated your poem because they don’t know, they’ll never know, that when a song comes on, like today, when “Creep,” by Radiohead crackled over the outdoor speaker, that you could be inspired to write a poem. That you would write a poem in your car frantically, in the last five minutes before you return the invisible box, in scrawls of all directions.
They don’t know because they fear the darkness. But you, you sat on the edge, so close, so close, you’ve been in the sickness, it’s swallowed you whole. The green churning monster has chewed you up. It’s scratched and pulled at your skin in all directions, but you lived. When Karma stirs her spoon, when she’s brings it on, when the sun tries to hide the truth with its light, you bask in the darkness. You’ve conquered darkness before, befriended it even, let it wrap you like a blanket, unlike them. Unlike them.