I haven’t washed the dishes in two days. They’re beginning to pile up in the sink. All my cups are stained with coffee and my chest is beginning to throb painfully with each sip I take. The quotes on my wall, that despite knowing them off by heart remain encouraging on good days, have morphed into mere words that make no sense to me. I confide in the characters in the stories I’ve conjured up in my head; them, I don’t have to face after my confessions. I don’t have to worry that they’ll treat me like thin glass that could break if held too tightly. They don’t demand explanations.

I read a book a couple of days ago. The girl with the curly hair spoke of how she felt she was an experimental human, placed on Earth by aliens to see what would happen. The girl with the curly hair spoke of how she wished they’d come and take her back home. How the experiment was clearly failing.

Sometimes I feel the same.

Someone once told me that writers tend to be depressive. That a creative mind knows no rest, and while it’s tempting to romanticize this, something in me rages against it so heavily. If a creative mind births unrelenting existential crises and always-in-my-throat lumps, a trade for a kinder mind might be overdue.

It’s been three days and I’ve only made it through two of the readings necessary for an essay I have due next week. To be quite honest, there is not a bone in my failing body that cares. I’d say, “But Sego, this isn’t who you are. You’ve been through worse. Dust it off and keep going.”, only, my reflection stares back questioningly. Most of me agrees with its ”If This Isn’t Who You Are, Who Are You Really? Do You Even Know? Does Anyone Even Know?”

Because when the rest of the world was finding itself, I was stuck fighting to merely stay alive. No one waited for me, so I got left behind. My symptoms could just be telling of I’ll-Never-Catch-Up Syndrome.

Anyhow, the point is, the dishes need washing. And my essay needs writing. And I’m still tired.

?: ‘Kitchen Sink’ by Joy Nichols