However in this space there is now room for me. I had been edged out, suppressed. Now that I have unfurled from the small space I had inhabited I feel unsure of myself and weak. Anxiety reverberates through me, impossible to still. I will wait it out.
Tomorrow it will be better.
Today is tomorrow. And the quiet should be solace; the dark should temper the pain. Instead it torments and yells filling the silent dark and sucking all the air from the room. I want to embrace life, but how do I hug the nothingness? I am not anchored in time or space in this moment and when I finally crash from exhaustion I will sleep fitfully only to awaken again in an unknown place, uncertain of where and when I am. Perhaps even whom.
Tomorrow it will be better.
There have been a few tomorrows before today and still it did not brighten. Yesterday’s tomorrow attacked me with cactus needles, like my illness, invisible and yet incredibly painful. Like a riddle that cannot be solved.
The day before’s yesterday I was assaulted by the gaudy colours of the supermarket, only as time edged slowly forward my mind moved slowly away and a bubble filled the void between me and the world making it impossible to navigate without falling over and slurring.
Today’s tomorrow was filled with a kitten poo bed, a ceaselessly undulating floor that defied my balance and deafening all consuming migraines. They have been taunting me for days, overburdening my senses so that each sense now feels taut like an overstretched old rubber band, cracking at the edges, ready to break and fly into the wall should I not keep the correct pressure of control on them. Even then, the wall beckons.
Tomorrow it will be better.
