One week left to finish my MA thesis draft. Serious Draft. One week left before I spend two weeks singing in England. Two months before I leave home for three years or more.
I am a bubble waiting to pop.
I must look very shiny, rainbow coloured maybe. Seemingly harmless, floating around. But bubbles are time bombs. It is only a matter of time before I hit the ground, or a branch, or a bench. Before someone finds me just too, too tempting to touch with a finger and POP, I burst in bright foam and soak them in soap.
What will my burst look like? What am I holding, safe behind my transparent, sealed walls?
I want to stop taking my medicine. I want to throw it down the drain. I want to scream and hug puppies and dance in thunderstorms, wearing a white dress that will get sodden and smeared when I fall on my back, and make angels in the muddy pools of grass.
I can’t concentrate. I can just see futures, so distracting that I forget the real world. I stop seeing and start dreaming pretty pictures of madness, where I break, where I crack, and I electrify down to my toes. I cannot see myself happy where I am not a child, mute, giggling, scared. I retreat into my joyous nightmare where I am free. I am lost. I am violent.