I feel my heartbeat hard in my chest. There’s
heat in my skin as I hear the waves crash in the
distance. I know its place. I know the relation of
the horizon to where we are, where we have been,
where I am surrounded by lined wallpaper and
pages and paints and frames. I could burn any
second. I prayed for gratitude, and I stated what I
wanted so bad. I knew the end of the sentence –
period. I’d never heard that from myself before. As
the clock chimes in another room – another kind of
distance – and as much colour as we’ve put into this
year, when colour has been drained out of us, too, I
see one scene fade into another. The fading of life,
back there – not so far away – to fade into life here
that brisks into action there – not too far ahead –
because life dances, seems to move in circles; “I
know this place,” “I’ve been here before,” “We’ve
met,” “What’s your name?” “Who are you?”
“Where do you come from?” “I know you.” “Déjà vu.”
My heart beats hard in my chest, and my skin burns,
while my eyes feel the weight of a room with shells
on top of the wallpaper. And now we are at a blank,
even the waves have faded.