It’s a plain picture. Just another grey day, and me, still waiting to burst into flames.
I always imagined how me bursting into flames might actually look. Whether I’d be a myriad of colours, or just another sketch in shades of grey.
It’s a plain day. The books are strewn across my bed, waiting to burst into flames too, probably. I’m waiting for inspiration to come knocking, as I always have. But like always, it’s still not here. I’m waiting for something to catch my eye, or whip me up in a frenzy, but being surprised is a privilege I seem to no longer have.
I’m looking around and seeing these things, but they seem to be in another dimension. And I’m waiting to be let in, as if it’s one of those exclusive parties with long queues outside them.
I’m dying of thirst. I don’t mean the thirst for adventure, I mean actual, genuine thirst for water. Like the type where you are thirsty even though you drank five seconds ago.
It’s a normal day, and I’m still waiting to feel normal. But that’s a word that lost its meaning a while ago. To me, anyway.
I remember being asked a question. “How can any human ever be anything as plain as normal?”
I know a poet. Or a friend who writes poetry, anyway.
‘But in a world where everyone aims for extraordinary,
Maybe normal’s not something bad to be.’
Maybe he’s right, or maybe I’m just too willing to jeopardise every belief I’ve ever held. Or maybe, just maybe, I’m addicted to ‘maybes’.
I’m the same as any other day, thinking in metaphors that don’t make complete sense to me. But they’re more familiar than this solitude, so I let them haunt me anyway.