it is early thursday morning. very early. i haven't gone to bed yet, and the house is quiet. i am alone. all the lights are off and i can almost feel the space where songs of lost love should be lost in my ears. everything is more emotional at this hour. the plane of my room stretches just far enough, leaving me alone on the rectangular island of daybed. i stare out blankly, looking for my rescue ship on the distant horizon. my book lies untouched this evening -- on my nightstand -- an empty seashell on its own sandbar. i don't deserve the pleasure of its company tonight. marooned sailors are not allowed to partake in pleasure, only salty air and stormy seas.
the breeze outside moves past my window without much enthusiasm and i shut it tight apologetically. sorry for the muggy morning, it says. but i am the one who is sorry. i am sorry for my thoughts, words and actions that have led me to this place. it's my own fault i am shipwrecked.
confused, my face settles in my pillow with the promise of muffling the words i say under my breath. but my utterings are in vain, for pillows are as unresponsive as clouds, aimlessly floating towards nowhere.
the whirring of my fan finally settles in as a chill does from drifting ocean fog.
this morning i am no more than a castaway on a beach, tired of waiting.
and ready to build my raft.
