It does get better, not at once; gradually, until your breaths no longer come easily and you no longer find it condensing in the winter any fun. Until the clouds are just clouds, and silver linings adorn the ends of sleeves. Tunnels take you from one destination to the other, and the light switch is at the other end of the room, but you're already tucked into bed. Milk or cereal first, noodles or soup, I heard it all tastes the same no matter the order; I vaguely remember preaching cereal first, obviously.
I take my sessions, and I love my psychologist; I dread making her feel disappointed; the mask never comes off, I guess. I tell her I feel, perhaps for a minute, even a second, I do, trust me, but I still feel numb and hazy, as if I live inside a memory of a memory of a girl who is me, looking at me through the mirror. I touch my optical fingertips to hers, and I can feel her frost-kissed skin glide over mine, and she says something, but it's muffled, and suddenly I slip through the cracks in this illusion, down into the water. I was never taught to swim.
I feel unloveable, I pick up the ugly duckling on the way back home, and then I throw it in the trash; I think it needs to be recycled? I don't know. I can't care; it's so easy to say this now, but I remember seeing in a movie you can't say stuff like this, you can't admit it out loud. Some responsibility or humanity sermon that I used to care about. She asks me through the screen of my new iPhone, what are your hobbies? I laugh. I can't really remember.
What makes me human? I think my brain and my lungs and my gut and the blood, oh, and the heart, can't forget that little rascal, can we now. She laughs with me, at me, for me? I can't tell. Embarrassing when I had to sit and have her list stuff to me, I was a newborn seemingly reaching for the box of rat poison all because I found the colours striking. I said yes and yes, to this and that, because I do recall feeling happy, or was it another me, other side of the mirror me?
Idioms, such a waste of time. I recall some more to pass time, fashion them to my liking; after all, did the pioneers have to deal with the 21st century? It is so very jarring to be me, to live in me and see through these sockets the world in all its unappetising glory. I sound like the crocodile in Lemony Snicket, 'woe is me, woe is me'. She tells me that's all for today, and she does help me, she truly does. I am grateful, but how do I tell her the problem is me? Another time, perhaps, another world, another me.
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(Weird paragraph breaks? Idh man i dont rlly expect anyone to read this😭)
