I woke up one morning and every thing from that eye crack forward was beyond my reach. I threw my voice into a pillow to not wake the neighbors. That day I missed a flight. The next morning I missed another flight. I took it as a sign that I wasn’t supposed to be in Budapest. I didn’t feel like I belonged anywhere truthfully. I hated everyone’s happiness. I felt guilty for hating everyone’s happiness. The sun was out too long and it doesn’t matter if you sleep for 20 minutes or for 12 hours, it still only feels like a blink. I missed another flight. I was only eating for fuel. I caught up on all the sleep I forwent over the past month and it wasn’t enough. For the first time ever, blackout curtains didn’t blackout properly.
I avoided mirrors except when it was time to tell myself to not get stuck in the feelings. I talked to my reflection like my Effective Listening 131 professor said I talked to other students; in a judgmental tone they probably didn’t deserve.
I hopped a train, flew 11 hours through two countries, bought cigarettes for one of my best friends, hugged his mother, played with his dog, hopped another train to sit in a hotel room alone for 12 hours and to hug my mother the following morning and see a face and faces that was happy to see me.
I didn’t protect my space well. I fell in love with my own light, and danced in it too long, forgetting moths do the same. Forgetting maggots fester in the warmth the light brings. That light dimmed to darkness over those days. In the dark, it was easier to clear space than it was to search for the light switch. I arm-swept it all into the bin to a Frank Ocean Blonde soundtrack, stuck on “Everybody needs you. I hope you doing well, bruh.” I didn’t want to be needed and it felt good to not provide. That pleasure is maybe what kept me. That pleasure and maybe the jerk chicken.
Then it stopped for a bit and I now question my returned happiness.