The Only

Face My Fears

Tears.

Tears obscure my now-moistened cheeks.

Is it too early to wake up from this nightmare?

My blurred vision settles upon keys—a row of them—plenty of white and less of black.

I try to leave, but I'm unable to move.

I'm glued to this stool, and my trembling hands move towards the keys without my consent.

The more I close in, the more the agony worsens around my heart.

"Please, someone wake me," I utter, as if anyone can hear me.

I look around and what do I see? Infinite darkness. I'm alone.

My index finger presses upon a black key.

I hear a bland thump—no melodic sound.

I repeat the action more than once, pressing harder and harder until one finger turns into three, and those three morphs into fists.

The keys fly off and land on the imperceptible ground until there's nothing left.

The pieces have fallen, and without them, this instrument has no soul; no heart; no life.

What's left of it? Emptiness. Meaninglessness.

Could the pieces line up, again?

__________________

That's what I dreamt of last night—more so, what I can remember.

The meaning; it's a symbolic representation of my fear(s).

In fact, there was another nightmare—different from that one—and it was much worse. To my dismay, a detailed recollection of that one is unattainable.

This whole week seems to flow naturally, like water in a running river, or so I thought. That is, until a disruption finally breaks through the once-calm surface, destroying any sliver of relaxation or contentment.

Instead of a soft ripple, it's a destructive wave.

Then again, I'm foolish to expect nothing will arise to shatter this layer of positivity that I've developed—merely a fragile film laced over my heart.

A film that could be scraped off with ease, like one of those scratch-off lotto tickets.

My mind runs and runs, searching for a reason for these repetitive nightmares, but I never reach a conclusion. I know the reason behind why they return, but why do they never stop? Posing as a distraction from it all, my friends are a huge help, but if it never ends, then would I be making any progress?

If this is an issue that I'm always going to deal with, will I be strong enough to face it head-on? It continues to partially destroy me, like a stab with every occurrence, gearing up to initiate one final blow. As if it's some challenge that I must face every day, testing me; playing me; ruining my chances of waking up with a clear head and dry cheeks.

"Yah, are you okay, Taehyung?" It was Bogum. His hand hovers and touches my shoulder, staring straight into my exhausted eyes, trying to find a reasonable answer. Today, unlike others, they're bleak, lost, and blank, and I believe he notices that difference. "What's wrong?"

Jimin asked me the same question this morning:

It was the crack of dawn; I woke up at six and never went back to sleep because I couldn't. So, I waited until Aunt Kim went to work. Until then, I laid in the middle of my bed like a figurine—frozen in-place—and stared at the ceiling for an hour. I was afraid to go back to sleep. I cried for five minutes, but that was enough. Once I heard the front door close, it was seven in the morning. Aunt Kim was gone. I went downstairs to eat the breakfast that was left in the fridge because I was hungry. Halfway through, I vomited everything up, so I never ate, again. As unusual as that occurrence is as of late, Jimin wakes up as usual and waltzes into my room to wake me up, but difference is, I already am.