whimper

a stream of consciousness

Untitled, from Angel Series by Francesca Woodman

Who am I in this instant? An overthinker, writing speeches for the audience in my head. No longer human, woman, but a reflection of someone who existed in the past. I carry her weight; I feel her on the small of my back. And at night, when the wind cools and I am long asleep, she looks through my eyes. I am her object, her body, dirty from her blood. I write for her. It’s always been for her.

Belonging is difficult; I am at odds with my own shape constantly. And it makes me want to scream, in perpetuity, until there is no echo, until I lose outline entirely. There is something inside of me that pangs, gentling knocking on my heart, and I feel it slip from the cut. Will I ever love again? I can’t respond. I run, till I drip like acetylene, and scream once more into myself. I do not belong to anyone. I am alive, I am alive, and I do not belong to anyone.

I’ve written before, but this time it feels different. Familiar. A conversation, a polite willingness to sit at the table before imploding. There is no soul in this; I write with bloodied hands and the belief that I’ll go mad before the night is gone. But there is nowhere to go; I am at the centre of the Earth. The world will end, and another will take its stead. I’ll sooner dissolve into the grand illusion, and with that let everything stop making sense.

There’s a scratch on my eye—I feel more alive than ever. This world was never mine to begin with; the only thing I have to my name is the pain of being. I fell in love once, never again. To err is human. To yearn is God’s only command. I am alive, I am alive, and I do not belong to anyone.

There’s some love of mine caught in the wind. I pray it won’t enter your window. May it stay floating, palms outstretched to the great expanse.

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