I want to write

I’m standing in the corner. When I’m still, no one seems to see me. Is that because I am no bother? Is it because I do not need anyone? As soon as I move, I become the destroyer and consumer of that which was and could no longer be in my path.

There is a darkness around me, and a smell that brings both pleasant memories, as well as a sharp pain, getting stuck somewhere in my lungs.  I can remember sitting with a real cigarette between my fingers. But I cannot recall what transpired after the burn caused a long shriek emanating from my throat.

I remember the usual hustle and bustle around me. Quiet people. Only eyes convey the urgency of the matter. Eyes which never search for mine.

Some time ago, someone came to see me. She had kind, uncertain and desperate eyes. She looked at me, but did not speak to me. She was focused on conveying her words to my family, but just couldn’t take her eyes off me. It was almost as if she wanted me to start a conversation with her only, but without words.

I once looked in a mirror. I tried to see, for a long time at least, what others see. I have a face which promise some developing masculinity. However, none of the features are very distinctive. Lips are protruding. Not because of the general facial features, but due to my own effort to make it protrude. When this decision was made, is very unclear.

I then moved to my eyes. It is then that I saw what others don’t want to see. Why they avoid it completely, if they can. My pupils almost completely cover the whites of my eyes. But it is not the color, or how huge they are (apparently, I sleep with half-open eyes!), but it is the depth of the darkness which is almost touchable, no wait!.. palpable! It is the cold which emanate from it, both mesmerizing, and frightening. Almost hypnotizing. And the way it can remain still is really something to behold. It is like I forgot to blink, the sting from the dryness stand no chance against this reward of appearing dead.

I eventually did blink. And when I opened my eyes again, I was in the bath, water covered my entire body, with only the head protruding above the water. Then I closed my eyes again.

I must move from this corner. I am already reaching for the bed, when my legs reminded me that they still need to be revved up. I am able to turn my body like those air dancers in front of the motor dealership. When limbs and mind connect, we start the movement. It is a movement where swiftness and speed characterize chaos. And slow and tentativeness characterize order.

I have reached the bed, but I also have not reached the bed. In my haste to end this half-marathon, I plunged forward. A soft pillow under my nose, and seemingly unwavering attention to other objects in the room, by those with other limbs, signal a safe landing.

I managed to lift my head, and I once again start to laugh at the comic position I’m in. Forehead touching knees – that needs some doing! Haha! This joke is clearly not shared, and eyes kept averting me.

Sometimes I can stay in this position for quite some time. They call it long minutes. What are minutes really? How important are they? Where are we ticking towards? Or ticking away from?

I managed to lift my head from my knees, but in the chaos banged it against the headboard.

Here they come! Sound seems to activate certain actions in this house. The louder they are, the more they are attended to. Hang on! Now I get it! These guys are deaf! Haha!

Someone put a ‘pen’ in my mouth. Some minutes ago, I started to ‘write’. I received a machine which can translate my thoughts into words. Words! Words! Sounds which communicate messages. My first thought, once the tutorial was done, was to test out this machine. And since the pen was in my mouth, it translated the words, ‘I want to write’ on the screen. This translation for everyone meant that I wanted to write something more than just casual conversation.

And so it was, that I started to ‘think’ a lot. I know this because this machine kept typing. So now, few minutes later, they had to get the words out of the machine onto paper. When it was returned, I was told, it was about 1 200 pages long. Some said it was too long, but refused to edit any for fear of losing too many minutes. Others felt it makes a very decent ornament on the night stand.

For some reason no one on earth has read it. Including myself. I managed to catch a glimpse of the cover. It says, ‘ I want to write , by Rielle Joe’.

The thunderstorms which live in my head, become darker and louder every time. And when it is safe to open my eyes again, I face the mount of paper. And I know it must be lovely, because it is my first.

Dorothy has been standing in the doorway for about twenty minutes. For the first two, nothing really happened in this bedroom. She acknowledged the young man standing in the corner. Is he hiding, or trying to steady himself? Sweat beads are dripping from his forehead, and there appears to be some storm happening inside his brain. Then without warning, he started to move. The movement was slow, deliberate, but oh boy!...so uncoordinated and unconvincing! It was almost as if he has decided to move, but between that decision, and the end of the movement, he changed his mind! And that bodily reflexes were mesmerizing. Not like a dancer’s, but ugly and incomprehensible.

In the midst of it all, he managed to flung his body backwards, hits the table behind him, and then all hell breaks loose.

People are streaming into his bedroom, shouting at each other as if they are to blame. Then a shrill sound comes out of the body of the young man, and more people ascend on the now stiff and erect body.

It took five people to move him from the corner, and press his body down onto the bed. The fifth person produces a thick needle, shout a damning word, and pushes the needle into his side. And almost instantly the body relaxes and his eyes half close. Someone grabs the manuscript next to his bed, shove it in my face, and says, ‘You the lady from the publishers? Here, it is time for you to leave.’

Only muffled noises are audible through the closed door, and I exit the house, greeted by a chilly autumn wind.