I sit in between two screens: a green behind, a digital in front.
A screen sits in between me, shapeshifting until it fits all the cracks in my bones, The staccatos, the legatos, the jutting, the soft flesh.
A routine sits in between me, molding my blood and nerves, and moods and tempo, and swirling in my iris like that time signature I never follow.
A machine sits in between me, filling the voids in my metronome: beep, beep, beep, a therapeutic 60 beats per minute.
I wish I could say my body was my instrument and I played it to my own tune.
I wish my heart strings were musical and not just balloons.
I wish my limbs were flying harmonies instead of just height and weight never leaving the cocoon.
Because in a world with mornings that reflect the same caffeine’s, machines, routines, and screams. And in a world with nights that eclipse the same nicotine, vaccines, and sweet sixteens over screens, seclusion is muffling my music.
Now, I sit on my bed, my spine is a question mark; the answer for its deteriorating posture in the part of my mind I stopped giving heed to. Because what is the point?
Here I am like a fetus, my laptop threatening to tip over my elbows, while I threaten to tip over the iceberg and fall in into the deep pothole of my teacher’s voice.
I’m slapping my sweaty palms on my keyboard desperately hoping Word will autocorrect this isolation into some relief. But that double blue line under ISOLATION proves there exist formatting inconsistencies. I couldn’t tell you what that means.
But what I do know is that ragged, blinking blue line underlining my lacking life is but a beacon. It is the oceans ripple that tauntingly kisses the shore of my foot and leaves; it is the path of the ship that drifts away on the rings of my eyes and falls off the edge; it is the honeysuckle vine that chokes my lungs- turning my veins blue. It is a blue line that tells me I can fix my isolation with a right click. A right click as hopeless as trying to ignore television subtitles. You forget and read them anyways. I’ll forget and spell out isolation anyways. A right click is a pill.
But I crave the, sweet, saccharine cloying tonic instead. I swallow the syrup; I backspace my isolation. I watch each letter of my isolation coat the walls of my throat until all they are just that. Letters. I can rewrite my oceans, I can renavigate my ship, and I can rejuvenate my breath.
Because barnacles like these, isolation, they latch on in salty, shallow waters. But, the antiseptic is always found in the pure, deep oceans. So yes, I will rather dive and maybe drown in the storms at sea rather than bathe and maybe bask in the teeth of pesky ease. Because isolation was once my aperture. But resilience is now my kaleidoscope. My body and mind my instrument.