After dragging her shell through the motions of the day she, as always, found herself swaddled inside a cocoon of blankets. There was safety in the simplicity of lying in her bed underneath the fairy lights she had meandered delicately against the headboard. Upon shutting her eyes she would notice how the red aura of these lights filtered through the gaps in her eyelashes embellishing the darkness she now saw.
It was easier now, in the familiar bed, to let her mind stretch and extend through the emotional toll of the day. Always able to feel the subtlest pinch with her sensitivity she often felt an overwhelming melancholy in the moments she allowed her mind to wander.
Habitually she wondered if the gloom was supposed to feel profound. It resonated deep in the confines of her rib cage, which now rose and fell, an emblem of her continued breathing. The absorbed news headlines and harsh anecdotes received from friends of friends now circulated amongst her brain, trickling into the bloodstream and coagulating with her own demons and struggles she was afflicted with.
Some nights she attempts to exorcise herself, she repeats her mantras within scalding showers, stares straight at her own eyes in the steamed up mirror.
She knows she’d be a fool to presume she would be happier back half a century ago yet she still harbors displacement, the longing for a more concrete feeling of being home.
She tries to skim over the truth in order to keep her own head pretty but there’s a void inside it.
Her mind slips precariously back to her youth; she used to be able to lie with her skin against the grass to hold onto the feeling of being grounded. Sometimes she felt her heart beat in sync to the movement of tectonic plates that sprawled underneath.
At the age of eight she found a young sparrow, which had plummeted from its nest. Letting the dirt accumulate behind her fingernails she dug writhing earthworms and laid them besides it’s frail body.
Once it had passed she pressed dried flowers against its feathers and wrapped it gently in tissue paper within a shoebox; a returned gift.
Twenty years older, the lines have been erased. She can no longer feel the wavelengths of the season’s echo, the warmth of years old sunrays had since lost their ability to feel like a personal shelter. Her awareness of the disconnection between herself and the maternity of the universe haunts her.