Today, I am numb.
My eyes are dull when I look at the mirror. There is no adoring gaze, nor sharp words that claw at my mind. There is no acknowledgement, and she stares at me. I let water run along my palm, and it slides down in streams.
It is not peaceful. The fuzzy noise tickles at my skin, crawling down my ear canals. I feel its rattle in my eardrums, and I see light in specks of blurs. My brain is itching with cold sparks, and my mind goes blank. The world sounds like faint crackling.
My eyes scan through words that have lost their colour. They taste dull and bland to my tongue, despite igniting fireworks within me the day before. My gaze travels in a straight line, and my book returns to its first page in a blur. I repeat. There is no sensation.
I pick up a pencil, and make soft lines on rough paper. The flowers I draw are not wilting nor in full bloom. The sparks are of a dark shade, and my lines share the same colour. I do not think. My hand guides my pen through lines and swirls. Blank ink scratches along the page, and I do not click my tongue when it smears. The white circle in the midst of the calm chaos is a blank space that I peer into. I leave it empty, and the felt runs as the melody in my ears blocks off the crackles.
There is no ticking. I move monotonously, and my mind is a light rainfall. My pencil returns to its darkness, my screen snapping into black. I breathe and close my eyes.
Perhaps, tomorrow, I will taste something.
