the way things are

in a real dark night of the soul it is always three o'clock in the morning, day after day

[f. scott fitzgerald]

there were days - it seems so long ago now - when waking up in the morning brought along a good feeling of willingness to go to work, spending time in class, interacting with young minds, seeing friends, spending time outside. now, waking up (and going to bed) is ridden with anguish. what-ifs float around, loud as thunder in the silence of the night, sharing their noise with car alarms, vehicles speeding on the freeway, the 2 am train, sprinklers. the hours spent in bed before sleep takes over are filled with imaginary situations, none of them positive, studying possible outcomes, possible ways out, looking for doors and safe exits.
the short walk to work has new company now. palms that get sweatier the closer i get to campus, shakier with each step. each shadow an enemy; the eyes that used to wander from plants to sidewalk now scan the surroundings from every angle, in the vane hope of foreseeing the unforeseeable. it's an unwelcome paralysis in what used to be a pleasant routine. the perception of danger is behind every blind corner, brought on by the slimmest shadows, the tiniest noise, doors closing, doors opening, voices. a safe world now infected. it's surprising what a mere presence can do to a scarred soul.
every step is now dragged, slower, calculated, the body wrapped in heavy movements, as if saving the energy for a quick defense move, a fast run, a loud scream. the only sanctuary of safety is a small room - a golden cage is still, sadly, a cage - where the ear never fails to listen, assisting a body constantly scanning the floor's slightest vibrations brought about by steps on the stairs outside. the closer they get, the faster the heartbeats. shivers leave when they fade. i sit in the dark, thinking, breathing, rationalizing; mind wandering to dark places, phone always at arm's length. eyes water unexpectedly, panic finding its way out in liquid form from every pore. i speak less. i breathe less. i eat less. i sleep less. i dream less. i laugh less. i live less. i just hide.
a debilitating sense of loneliness comes about, born from the desire to have someone here, some company, some comfort, what if what if what if. the terror of being caught alone, unprepared, would anybody hear? would anybody notice? the desire to speak, to voice all this, mangled by the dread of being perceived as pathetically exaggerating the issue. a hand stretched out meets only emptiness.


and as i smoke yet another one, looking up at the moon hiding behind eucalyptus leaves, breathing in the cold air of the late, late night, i silently, tearfully wonder what tomorrow will bring.