It’s been long since I’ve been on here. I’ve been good, with occasional hiccups. I’m currently sitting at a corner of the pop-filled room and my fingertips are cold. All I want is just to dive under blankets back home, in my room, but warmth back there is non-existent I, could feel the sun razing me as I sneeze into my own ashes. I never wanted to leave this cold. My head dulls with throbbing once I am out. Heart currently pumping really fast. I am calm.
Listen: the leaves no longer rustle, the wind no longer sighs, our hearts no longer beat. They’ve fallen silent. Fallen, as if into the earth. Or is it we who have fallen? Perhaps it’s not the world that is soundless but we who are deaf. What membrane seals us off, from the music we used to dance to? Why can’t we hear?
—Margaret Atwood, from “Something Has Happened,” in The Tent (First Anchor Books, 2006)
On my night off I try to write,
sometimes go so far into myself
I think there’s no getting out.
That poem I gave you about the girl
who disappears in her own room,
did you know […] who she was,
that it wasn’t creative writing at all?