On Sunday, mom calls again. I let it go to voicemail. I'm struck by a sudden, irrational fear that she's reaching out in her final moments and wrestle with the guilt that this could be my last chance to speak with her. I text her out of baseless worry, she’s neither sick nor old enough to worry about her dying.
Sorry, busy at the moment. Can I call tonight?
I hardly call, never text. I rarely think about anyone at all. Morning passes in a haze. The bed sheets stick to my sweat-soaked skin. The switch on the wall is so far away, the window as well. The AC even further.
I fumble through every mistake I’ve ever made and try to stitch together the trace of some path that might’ve brought me here. There was a time when I was not this - a time not plagued by religious fears. An inability to relax. Self-punishment. Obsessive thoughts. Compulsive behaviors.
I grew disgusted with the world and withdrew into myself.
I’d like that, it’d require my being superior to every one else. The truth is that fear has turned me into a recluse.
I grew afraid and hid.
My sister calls. Probably at Ma’s behest. It rings out. I’m staring at my ceiling, feeling overwhelmed by a vague sadness. I feel the passing of time so acutely, all I can do is remember. I haven’t done anything at all. I’m so tired. I wish to forgive myself.
I laugh at the absurdity of the life I’ve built for myself - I shun the world, deny my own existence and yet resent being forgotten.
My only wish now is to become ephemeral, for the sun to set and never rise again. I want to lie sullen in this bed for a lifetime.