Beneath the discarded paper and false worries is a picture of you. I shift the waste paper and hurl the various manila envelopes into the air in frustration, but they flutter mockingly to the floor. Finally I get to it.
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The image is confused at first. I flop down in the seat and slash at the lamp switch. The focus is blurred to begin with but I soon fix in on the solid fraction of last year. Your eyes still flatter me, your lips curl politely towards the sky.
The green and flowered backdrop flops out around you. Your body slides over the page and my hand begins to cave silently under the pressure of the image. Its silent flowing movement tears the air, my hand, now shaking uncontrollably, makes a dash for the fading image, but instantly retreats towards my side and lies effortlessly there for a second. Then after a brief recess it lifts itself back to the table and thumps the light to a halt.
Being plunged into darkness so quickly brings my mind to a stop. All the emotion and fear that had been quaking through my eyes suddenly became centred within the soft and controlled pool. But as my eyes began to shift into clarity, or some sort of similar sensual awareness that quickens the assessment of the situation, I began to feel myself falling. No. Not falling. Collapsing. Tumbling. Rolling into a spiral of frictions fractions of ideas. I was plunged deep into the dim construction of the room. Beyond the walls, beyond the boundaries of the floor and ceiling.
My eyes flick around the new space. I don’t even try to discuss the structure. My thoughts are drained by the photograph that still bleeds uncontrollably beneath the surface. Immersed in the flame lit and silent atmosphere of my vile internal monologue. But for the first time under complete consciousness I realise that my monologue has split.
A duologue, then a conversation, then a debate breaks out from the calm spirit atmosphere of the vacant cell that I find myself occupying. It gets louder, more aggressive. One voice parades its idea in front of the other. Something about a boy, something about death. But it’s unclear. It’s not just unclear it’s veiled. Something’s shouting over the voice, something’s holding it to its secrecy. Another voice pounds after the previous one, arguing about a blind confusion. She seems to want me to think, want me to know…something…but the voice itself is disorientated, it doesn’t seem to understand or follow the original argument.
A cough. A spitting leaking, desperate cough echoes from the centre of the space. It leaps above the voices, drowning them in a repetition and monotony. A conveyer belt of noise emulates from the cough. None of it has any grounding or solidity, each sound falls over with the next ripple, giving in to the slightest challenge.
The vibrant colours of the harassing cough slowly and carefully disintegrate into a pale steady buzzing and once again I pulse through the floor, bleeding into the now fleeting scenery. And there he is. The boy the voices were pleading with. The silence beneath the course vulgarity of the disorientated argument. Suddenly the soft darkness shoots into a sharp focus. There, crouched, is the boy who never grew up.
Remember my friend, despite all you are, all we are, the universe will tick on, long past our departure.