12-20-18 Diary Entry

12/20/18- Time seems to become quicksand, but don't let this misnomer fool you, for there is nothing quick about this painful suffocation I am forced to endure. The sunlight once came in through my window, every particle of dust was visible, floating and falling so freely; now, the cancer causing radiation gave light to how long it had been since I'd last wiped down the seals of my window, the towering stacks of books, the crooks and crannies of my shelves. I force myself to clean, to pass the mind poisoning time, by playing music, trying to get myself into the hyper mood that was always so craved by those around me. The me who would stand up on the table in the cafeteria and yell out to everyone to tell them how much I loved them, the me that would hold myself out of sunroofs with singing and smiling escaping my lips, the me who danced to the orchestra in my head, the me that walked up to strangers and told them that I loved them and that I hoped our paths crossed again, the me who sang of softer times and gentler ways, the me that painted gardens. I am now but a mere shell of my previous self. Hollow, decaying, layers of death piling up on my unmoving skin. Unblinking eyes are forced to watch the pain happening all around me. My heart being previously thrown into a lit hearth, a place where home is supposed to be found, not resting amongst the glowing embers, left smoldering, charred black. I now stand up at lunch to slouch my shoulders and weave in and out of kids without being noticed and if God forbid someone were to bump me they would hardly receive a mumble of an apology, I now hide from the sunlight, for it's in the light of day that I am forced to see my reflection in mirrors, constantly reminding me of my new ghoulish self, I no longer dance for I've let my joints rust and no amount of scrubbing could remove this inch thick layer, I now avoid people at all costs for their stares bore into my head like darts and fear reminds me that eventually their eyes will finally rest upon the patchiness of my scalp or the red on my throat or the bruises on my arms or the emptiness in my eyes, I lost my voice and forgot the words and without a tune to carry there are no gentle words to be sung, I have no gardens left to paint for an eternal winter has claimed home in my heart and everyone knows that the cold is no place for a patch of flowers to grow. I am now a barren wasteland. I am the desert, that has endured so much rain that all I do is create mudslides, that wash away houses. I am a rain forest, entering my thousandth year in a drought, filled parched plants, thirsty throats, lost lives . I am a rock song, one that puts the crowd at ease, headbanging, loud singing, happy hopping, sweaty body movements have all ceased. I am a lullaby, one that is filled with the crashes of cymbals, the pounding of timpani, waking the sleeping child that so relies on gentleness. I am a tree, whose leaves have fallen to the ground, whose buds followed in close pursuit, no offspring is offered, no shade provided, no bark is carved. I am a flower, one that has had every petal pluck to the point of a wilting figure, and no girl would walk by and think of placing me behind her ear, no boy would want to pull be from the ground to give to his lover. I am an ocean, one that no longer waves to the shore, the tide pools dried out, the fish have abandoned, the sediment staying. I am a song, one so dissonant that only the most complex minds could understand it. I am a poem, left half finished, eventually tossed when I become nothing more than clutter. And oh, what pain it brings me. To still be here, to be never changing, to have once been a force of power. And to now be broken, useless.  For a cracked mirror, a torn paper, a broken toy,  time is but quicksand. It’s name tantalizingly misleading. For there is nothing quick about what I am enduring. I am sinking, oh so slow. I am suffocating, ribs cracking only a centimeter at a time. I am bleeding out, drops staining the mud.  And as black slowly creeps in to the corner of my eyes, as sleepiness fills my body, I hear a soft twinkling. A broken music box spins a sliver rod, where a dainty ballerina once pirouetted, gracefully, softly, spinning with the soft chimes of the tune. And as the darkness has enclosed, it’s the now deafening music that strings me along. But alas, a pair of shears have snipped and snapped, and no longer am I a broken puppet to be made to dance and talk and sing and tap.