Skin to the bone and how thin it looks. Not for Sister Yvonne, her limbs look fine and greatly built. Afraid I might break them all when I sleep in the wrong position.
Do not know why, but the amount I am eating is getting smaller. This is not me, it is that the food on the bowl looks like its shrinking, but it is that not enough is being made. This goes along with the "skip days" which is what I call the bowl skipping time to come to the room.
While I know it can get to that, I get disappointed, but accepting that it is what it has to be; the food not coming to me. I feel terrible, losing my taste to eat because of it. Like I can not get the food down to my throat.
My face between my arms, my back arched, my knees touching my elbows, my hands on my hair. I imagine what it was like with the voice that entertains me, instead of being helpful. Again, I know it is not real.
It wants to know about my look. That plainness on my face. I tell it back, through another voice it is there because there is nothing better to make.
"Why do you not smile?" it asks. That is a good question. Why do I not smile?
Does it make me look odd at smiling at nothing? No one is watching. I can be happy on my own, about the things that make me so instead of being around the things that make me feel worse, but no, I can physically not escape it.
There is not a hole big enough. Not an idea big enough. Not time short enough.
"Feel better", the voice says. Feel better? What does that mean?
What I have made in that last time I could say things never had me that I should accept the voice or not. For now, I wanted to hear nothing. I wanted to enter back into silence where it is enjoyed.
Looking to the closest space near me, it tells me what I did that I knew well, "You have ignored me." Sad it seems, it comes after, "hear now", and a knock on the wall was after, one that was real and such when it is felt and more clear than what was speaking to me. I had my back flung to the wall to get away, not knowing where it is behind me, hitting my back and much of my head, feeling fear once again, asking "how did you do that?" in the tone of the shredded.
"Woah, you scared me, too", and a laugh after. The laugh. Not one to make fun of me like the voice of the head does but a calming one of no harm. "Is it you?" I said, having to make sure. "It is me, always has been" it replied.
It was Sister Yvonne. Mistaking her for something that can not be seen seemed disrespectful. "I just want to break the news that I have gained full ownership of a 'yot' Mom gave to me and has me prepared to take steering lessons for the summer".
It was back to an open ear. It is now safe. Something yellow is getting bright and taking all there is of the slot.
"Mom also gave me this bar of gold as a bonus. Wow, this is heavy", as she tries to pick up the yellow object. "Can we start talking about the art of paper folding and how the people do it? It is something I have been in good interest." But for now, though I wanted to hear her talk more about the things I fail to get to in here or not, I needed time away.
"After this. It will not be anything long."
"That is okay. Take the time you need."
Behind the areas without light, I wanted to prepare myself in sounding fine. I feel like I have gotten worse. Keeping her waiting does no better, it makes me miss a lot of what she has on her mind she could say now, being different when it is later.
She takes all the time she has which is all I want. I fear that while she speaks, I hear her but do not listen. Where her words would drown me as that is the noise I finally get. I have long been tired of the silence, which is why the voice in my head comes with me.
Even then do I feel nothing coming into my ears. Her talking heals the parts which feel like a block has been stuffing away noise. When the ringing stops, I get scared that I have lost both.
I have myself knocking on the floor, the wall, the fingers near my ears against each other to show how dry it is. Then the same thing plays again and again. It was all to have.
The noise that does not come from me that I witness teaches the things I need to know. If I miss a word, the whole thing or idea is out of shape, not to what Sister Yvonne. I was there alone as she waits fearing that the idea would be broken.
I feel relaxed knowing she is there, but not to drift away when she is giving something important. My thankfulness as she around drowns me more than the darkness I have been stuck with. Relieved, leaving this emotion of my heart to explode, warming that I might be safe, burning that someone like her can talk to me.
Thinking about that made me feel great again, and I put those worries behind me and tell her I want to know about those paper folds. Then she talks all about it. I had never wanted it to end.
I thank her more than I can say. I thank her more than I can think. It is like I have not thanked her enough.
It is odd to think about. How lucky I can be when I am not lucky. How great I am when I feel bad.
How crazy of a thing, an idea, a feeling it is.
—A.D; twentieth of May