The Box

I hear traffic and the rustling of blinds mixing with the whistle of the wind and showering of sprinklers against the bushes. The silence of programs running in the background overlays itself on the quiet humming of LEDs charged with electricity. A faint scent that can't quite be named rushes through the window, down the wall, over my covers and into my nose. Bitter, yet appeasing. Classics radiate through the wood, paint and drywall separating my room from the next, but it's too low to mind. At least, not at this time.

The whirlwind thoughts expanding before me take me many places I dare not normally go. But tonight I stand above it all in my mind, looking down as if to make judgement on something I don't quite understand. And it's there, as the air of doubt blows through me, that you appear, locking your arm and fingers into my own. I am not afraid. 

Only in such a lonely place do you come to me now, reassuring everything being planned out will succeed. I turn to converse, but your face is distant, as if sand would be so arrogant to blend your features into your flowing hair. Again, your face is a mystery to me. And for the first time, you let go. 

The cool air chills the already cold sweat I find myself once again drenched in. Somehow, it's hard to open my eyes, but I can already tell more than the classics have faded into the night. You will not be there when I sit up, reach for my cigarettes, and ponder one more time who you are. Slowly, the realization that you are fading from my sub conscious engulfs me, with the only logical sense about the situation being that my self confidence has grown exponentially. Therefore, you don't need to be there to hold my hand as I shape my world. Bitter, yet appeasing. For no matter how joyous it is to finally feel in control, the lingering mysteries of who you are and why you were there will always grasp my attention in the middle of the night. 

Closing the curtain, I consider the possibility of a metaphor playing out right in front of my eyes, guided by my own actions. I remember the quote in that passing moment, "Underneath every cynic is the tragic remains of a bleeding heart romantic." In less time than it takes to snap a finger, I probe the idea that I am still one and the same. I shrug it off. I know the markings of the ceiling like the back of my hand, but I know this may be the last time I stare at them for such a duration. I tell myself it's going to be okay. 

But this time, with a smile. Because I'm not reassuring myself. I'm making the bold, true statement. It's going to be okay.