I Don't Know Who I Am

[ry0un0suke]

. . .
Snippets of thought, beginnings of what may be. The journal of Sunsets over Moonlight fills with half-thoughts and half ideas explored partially and ending whenever they please. A new endeavor, such distance appearing even in more fictional takes. They scribble these things usually while sitting, attention divided between it and whoever may approach them as they work.
. . .

The sun woke me up like always and the day begun no different than the last. I sat up slow, watching the rays peek in through the window. Its thin curtains danced in the wind since the air should always be fresh and I never liked sleeping in a warm room. I willed some energy and slipped out of bed, taking time to adjust to standing, holding steady to whatever I dreamed before it slips away like the covers I adjust. Pillows fluffed and straightened, ready for the day as I will. So I stepped down familiar steps and stood in front of the mirror, wandering how I may do my hair, what I will wear today, what I should start on first-

 

My wings are gone.

 

I stare for a while longer, feeling smaller in the mirror since large wings take up no space behind me. I don't notice the horror on my face, dropped jaw and wide eyes and tremble. I turn slow, wondering if the angle tricked me, standing barely on my side, enough to look at my back and nothing is there. Soon my back starts to ache, a throbbing, crippling pain then bends both knees and collapses me onto the floor. I grip the carpet, breathe heavily as its absent weight crushes me, and I cry. Did I do something wrong? Does She test me? No, no... She would never. Someone took them. My sorrow melts as sobs drip into the carpet, leaving me steadily once still minutes pass. Heat consumes me, it pushes me up to a stand and I stare at my wingless reflection like a stranger.

 

"You did this to me." I spit, staring still. "You..." My anger does not last long. I collapse once more.

 

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
 

I always fall in love with people who have no time. They spend all of their pieces throughout the day on commitments older and deeper than I, and I receive what is left over at the end of the night. Sometimes a letter or single tired kiss languidly pressed into my cheek when exhaustion claims them. I wonder why. Happily, I take what I am given glad that the final token of strength came at the thought of me; They really do love me.

 

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“This is a bottle that makes you fall in love with the first person you lay eyes on.” The salesman played up, pulling every trick to get me to purchase what I already sought. Once I got home, I cracked up the bottle while in the bathroom alone, drank it full and stared at my own dim reflection.