45.45.45.

I examined the skin on my arm this morning; I admired the contours as it guided me round the bone. The shade given by them reminded me of the winter morning sunlight on the curtains in my old home. I would sit fixated, waiting for the smallest ripple, justifying the time I was spending doing so by under my breath convincing myself that at any moment I was to witness an act more graceful than a bird’s first flight. Although I now know I was in severe denial of my condition at that point, I still stand by those words. I imagine that it was the building up of those very words that would cause the inevitable stir as they drifted out across the room. The same food as always sits on the table in the left hand corner. The red tray brightens everything around it. casting a pinkish glow over its small perimeter which spreads like a thin layer of water. Each portion linking to another besieging the space between. Every atom what a minute is to a second. Before long my entire surroundings are aglow with pink light. I’m too scared to close my eyes should it vanish. I feel my eyes with the air, I can make my vision something that it ought not be. I can sometimes see the feelings in space if I refuse to close them. The moisture that lubricates their movement acts as a filtered lens. The life that is shown through wet eyes is not the one I believe in or want to fill my mind with. My dry eyes display a world undisturbed by definitive answers, uncluttered from the shapes that I’ve known for too long to ever believe in. When my eyes drain of liquid the air becomes soluble. I can slide forever outside of my sockets. My wrists ache, I must have rested on them as I slept. The pressure created a patch of red skin that I press with my thumb so that the blood can have a break each cell exiting to the catering tables to gorge on minerals before rushing back to their respective posts of general chaos. On closer inspection the winding corridors in the skin on my hands look like the iron deposits in the sandbanks at low tide. I could push a grain down the corridor with my nail if I concentrated, what could be hidden in my labyrinth of skin? When the thick part became wedged beneath my thumbnail I had to bite it out. I had given up on the corridors when they became flooded and therefore impossible for the grain or me to navigate. I squeeze it between my teeth like nothing could taste of more.