77: Dulled Senses (drabble) [written in the morning of Wednesday 23 December 2015]

77: Dulled Senses (drabble) [written in the morning of Wednesday 23 December 2015]

In the dark, she types, her fingers laboriously tapping down on the keys. It is not her usual typing speed. The brightly lit keyboard, other than the dimmed screen, is the only source of light in the room. The keys continue to clack slowly but softly. Eventually she becomes confused as to why she is still awake. She stops typing mid-word and goes to bed, but she doesn’t close her eyes. She allows the beauty of the darkness surround her and cloud her vision. Self-induced sadness overtakes her heart, and then the rest of the nerves in her body. She feels tears rise to her eyes, but she does not allow them to fall. What cause is it now? She is unsure, and she wades through a pit full of muddy sadness. After some time her eyes close and she is given a new canvas to pain new things on. An empty, new canvas in which she doesn’t know what to do with because she is still overcome with pain.

She does not paint anything closely related to happiness. Only melancholia, greyscale, tears, rain, these are the only things she is willing, comfortable to paint. She is not afraid of what others will think of her hideously pitiful painting, because it will disappear the moment sleep and unconsciousness snatch away the cold harshness of reality. On and on the canvas stretches, like a cold, no, like a roll of old film. She prefers to stop, and does not finish the painting of a broken heart lying on its side.

The next morning, the sound of the morning birds chirping bring her to consciousness. She rises slowly, feeling her matted hair fall past her shoulders with various inconsistencies, but mostly knots. An irregularity rises in her throat and emerges as a violent cough, knocking against the peacefulness of the still air. Outside her window she hears the pause in the birds’ songs, and shortly after, the flight of wings from an apparent danger. The unusual brightness of the sky blinds her as she moves to open her curtains. One can see the remnants of yesterday’s pain illuminated in her glistening eyes.

 

~ Serendipitous

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