With Regards to a Lingering Cold

 It’s cold. The sun stands defiantly in the center of the sky, toasting the back of my neck. 

It’s cold. Sweat begins its journey from my forehead toward my chin, stopping along the way to form tears in the corner of my eyes and fill my mouth with the taste of salt. 

It’s cold. Each breath runs its nails across my throat as it escapes, expelling itself in a dry cough easily mistaken for that of a career smoker. 

It’s cold. An erratic clinking draws my attention, causing me to reach for it. My hands find purchase - one at my wrist, the other at my neck. The chain betrays my fear, unable to quell its voice no matter how still I stay; no matter how hard I try not to shake. It is cold. I shiver.

I look up for the first time since realizing what had happened. I’m met by the faces of four others, each one donned in an outfit matching my own. We stand together, alone in a field of Nothing. Looking out brings nothing but a sense of dread - a fear of the void. I look back at the others for… for anything more than nothing. I’ve turned back quicker than all but one, seeing the look I wore moments ago on the faces of the remaining three. In this moment, a realization dawns upon me: these three are young. Far younger than me. The fourth is much older, and it shows. A look of compassion has come across their face. Whether this is their natural state or the facade that comes with being the Oldest I could not tell. How long ago had they turned back from Nothing to look upon us? Perhaps it doesn’t matter. It puts me at ease, and I do my best to try it on myself. These three would have more compassion to take in, even if I was only half as good at wearing the mantle. I would be Second, and the oldest would be First.

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First must have turned their gaze from Nothing long ago. The confidence with which they spoke paired with the compassion they shared for me as I struggled to keep my gaze from being consumed by Nothing assured me of that. That they were able to take some of the void away by creating sound brought me joy.  They were able to move through the field without any fear of misstep or falling into it. Each step created a path, allowing me to follow behind. The Nothing became less empty, being replaced by Something. First told me that this Something had a name, though I found myself unable to recall the word after hearing it.

While waiting for Third  to turn their gaze away from Nothing, First taught me about the nature of the Something surrounding us. It was a place that served as a safeguard against Nothing. It would ensure that the void couldn’t pull me back. It was a place of love and rest that First created in preparation for us. The more they detailed Something, the more tangible it became. What began as bits of random material suspended in the void expanded, intertwining with itself to become solid. Walls formed around and above us, blocking out the void and keeping us safe within.

This structure had been here long before I found myself able to see it. It marked signs of my growth according to First, and it meant that Third would soon turn their gaze away. I asked how they could possibly have knowledge of such things, but they simply stated it was the way of this world. They continued to teach as the time grew near. I gained a voice. It was an imitation of First’s, but they assured me that it would become entirely my own with time. The thought excited me. None of the new sounds that entered into my ears would ever compare to the first… no, the second. The sounds of my steps on the floor, the gentle rapping of the void on the outside of the walls, the clanging of pots and pans as First prepared food for us. These were wonderful sounds, but they paled in comparison to First’s voice. Nothing else brought me such peace. To think I could achieve even a fraction of that for Third felt like a dream, though I wanted it more than anything. A voice could soothe, and the words it spoke could create a world from Nothing.

Though they were simple, my conversations with First sparked something new within me. Whenever they ended I found myself dissatisfied. They were not responsible for this dissatisfaction, as everything they had to say found a perfect spot to fit into the space between my ears. No, the problem stemmed from desire for… something I couldn’t find the word for. Though First spoke of Something, gave me a voice, and told me of the ways I would need to prepare for Third, I felt as though there was more. I wanted to know about the fields of Nothing, about how First found their voice if they had to teach me mine, and about why I felt such a lingering cold around my wrists and neck no matter how warm Something was - and it was always warm. 

I opened my mouth to speak with what felt like my own voice for the first time, but First put up a finger to their lips and pointed toward Third. 

“It’s time.”

I shifted to First’s side and turned toward Third, unable to keep from fidgeting. First placed a hand on my shoulder, bringing with it a familiar calm. I put on my best First face and waited both a lifetime and a moment. Third turned toward us, eyes filled with fear and solitude as they reached for their neck and wrist. They shivered. I motioned toward them, beginning to embrace them as First gripped my shoulder tightly, not allowing me to move. Confused, I looked back toward them.

There they stood, four legs, four arms, and two heads, neither of which possessed the visage of First. I lurched away from the creature toward Third, picking them up in one arm, much to both our surprise. Looking down out at them gave me a moment’s respite from the newly formed fear and confusion. My own voice poured out of me almost accidentally, but filled with as much compassion as I could muster.

“Hello, little one. Do not fear, for I will keep you safe”

An unfamiliar hand found its perch on my shoulder, though I knew what it must belong to. I swallowed hard, looking as brave as possible for Third. 

Perhaps it was a trick of the void. A mistake. A result of me being nervous waiting for Third, I ran through lies hoping one of them would be more convincing than I thought they sounded in my head. I turned toward them, knowing the truth. There the creature remained. No. There First remained. One of their new arms sat on my shoulder, though neither head paid me any mind. They looked down at  Third with what looked like malice,  though their voice remained as soothing as ever.

“Welcome _________, LIttle One. We’ve been waiting for you.”

In looking down at Third, my stomach dropped,  as a truth I knew but desired to disregard become solidified. They looked so at peace. The fear fled from their eyes, replaced only by warmth. The creature who sounded like First was First. They always had been. In the same way that Nothing became Something, so too did First become Something. The truth that solidified was that this had always been first, much in the same way that Nothing always had Something there. It just took time for me to notice it. First turned away and began walking through Something in a pattern I recognized: the same pattern that created the pathway for me to follow. I set Third down and followed behind, as I didn’t wish to take away from them what I was given. As I followed, two new things came into view:

1. There was a crack in one of the walls of Something.

2. One of First’s new hand held itself in a closed fist at all times, as though gripping something tightly.

Both Third and I shivered. It was cold.

With Regards to Why I've Written This

     I write because there’s something I’ve forgotten; something that I’ve been missing; something that eats away at me from within. It possesses an insatiable hunger, and I am but a midnight  snack that simply whets its appetite. Whether it belongs to me, is of my own creation,  or is simply a visitor making themselves at home during the harsh reality of a 2 year winter is hard to say - though there’s not much of me left to decide which it is. It matters little whether or not such a distinction is meaningful or an excuse. The end result is the same: a hole residing where something used to be. What lives there cannot be felt, heard, or seen. It is the kind of thing that I must believe has found purchase in the hearts of many, though it is skilled at making its emptiness feel uniquely personal. For something to make you feel as though you’re  a layer of flesh resting upon another residing within is a cruel joke of the mind.

    I write because there’s someone I’ve forgotten; someone dear to me; someone who it would not be hyperbolic to say I could not do without. They are someone I’ve known my entire life, and have gone through extraordinary change. Years passed where they were unrecognizable, and oftentimes it felt as though we did not see each other at all. In growing older and “wiser”, I believed we had come to terms with each other. We became one, and the void within had been filled by me. Happily Ever After had arrived for me and myself. Unfortunately, there are no Happily Ever Afters to be found outside the realm of fiction. People change, and the worst is when the one that’s changed is you. To know that the war fought against myself to figure out how to be at peace was lost to the simple passage of time is disheartening. Whether the void changed shapes or I did is impossible to say. Again, perhaps it doesn’t matter. Or perhaps they are one in the same.

    I write because I’ve not written. Not really. I’ve conjured up stories, people, worlds, drama, love, loss, mystery, fantasy, and everything in between. But I have not written. Writing is quite unlike riding a bicycle. It is not the kind of thing one can simply do after not having done for years. Yet it is at the same time as simple as putting pen to paper or fingertip to keyboard. It’s the kind of thing that becomes uncomfortable to do after having left it alone for so long. One forgets simple rules of grammar; forgets the process of stringing together ideas and words into sentences that entices others; forgets that a piece of writing is meant to be read and should have a coherent thread to follow; forgets how to actually use semicolons. As with all things I’ve forgotten, this love of mine feels as though it has been forgotten too. Through neglect I’ve lost a skill, and it’s a muscle of mine that I think would be prudent to exercise. After all, this certainly has not been a good story. It’s hardly been a story at all.

    I write because writing is a difficult thing to do. And maybe - no matter how unlikely it may seem - if I can do this difficult thing, there are other difficult things I can do too. There is a certain comfort in that kind of thought. One that is pleasant to hold onto. I admit freely that this is a jumbled mess with little focus. This piece of writing dangles from a thin line overlooking a bottomless pit of an incoherent stream of consciousness. In this way, however, it is honest. I cannot draw. I cannot make music. I cannot dance. I cannot find an outlet for emotion that is not within the realm of words and stories. This is problematic as it often feels to be a fairly uncommon outlet for others to receive emotion. If nothing else, I hope that amidst the jumbled mess of words that emotion is conveyed. Perhaps it’s easier to find meaning in the jumbled mess of colors in a chaotic painting, but this is the only way I know how to do it. I just need to relearn how to be a bit more subtle.

I write because it brings me comfort. And right now? Comfort is what I need.