A Prose With No Direction

- - -

The sky outside looks beautiful.

Baby blue accompanied with white wisps of clouds paint the sky like Van Gogh to his Starry Night. The sun is not too bright yet not too dim; it doesn't blind anyone nor hide them.

Fourteen times the Earth has spun on its axis, and within those fourteen times, I have been cooped up in the darkness alongside her. She barely talks anymore, mouth stitched up like a rip on one's clothes. She secludes herself in the bathroom. I don't know what she does in there, but I know for sure she doesn't speak with the water.

Unlike me.

Although I prefer the comfort of my own darkness than the outside world, I do still like bathing in the nature around us. It's so perfect and pure in such an imperfect and ruined world. 

We don't deserve its beauty.

And yet, we ravish it anyway. 

Even if I did want to go out and admire its beauty, I have been forced not to do so. I heard of it from her, but there's a plague that's shrouding the nation. She calls it the "new plague" and says it's a foreign disease we are apparently vulnerable to. But she also says that this "new plague" is not too new and foreign that we haven't known or heard of its existence. 

I asked her if I was easily going to contract it. 

She says I already have it.

I asked her about its symptoms. 

She shows me the shut down schools, empty grocery stores, and boxes of masks and sanitizers being fought for and sold for an outrageous price.

I asked her how it affects my body.

She answers with greed, exploitation, anger, and panic. 

I asked her if I will die.

She says I have already died.

I asked her what this "new plague" was.

She blatantly replies with fear.

Fear #1: Death

Fear #2: Overthinking, overanalyzing, over-fearing.

Fear #3: The mind.

Fear #4: The fear of myself.

She tells me I have died from this.

From this "new plague."

It's funny how easily one can die without knowing it.

.

.

.

.

.

I look out the window.

I wonder how many people have died with this "new plague" without knowing it.

I wonder if they even know what this "new plague" actually is.

Fear disguised as a plague. She says, coming out.

I turn to her.

It's nothing new. Just fear disguised as a foreign plague.

Do you think they know, I ask.

Know what?

That it's fear.

I think they do. She says. They just don't wanna believe it.