(I think I made you up inside my head)

My Sister, the Sun

I’m lying on the floor, surrounded by things that mean nothing to everyone but mean everything to me. I count them all, fit each trinket into the memory that holds it, and try my best to feel full by the time I’m done. Meanwhile, the world outside moves by with flying colours. Meanwhile, I’m asleep and I’m dreaming and I miss the sound of the gun that means go. Can’t remember if I wanted to know when the running started to begin with. It’s safe here when the world is quiet, and I am content sitting still. But then the news starts blaring, mail is pouring in and you realize you’ve made a mausoleum of your own home. You open the windows, invite in a breeze and the dust stays settled, the air stays musty and still. They don’t do it to leave you behind, and their pity tastes like ashes on your tongue. I wonder if they can hear my joy for them from so far behind. All the moments you spent designing your own goal posts get toppled by the jealousy and buried by the irony. And you want to scream, want to cry out that you’re still here. That this lacklustre little life is as big and as bold as you said it would be. And more than anything, you want to believe that it could be true. That you don’t want the things you said you’d never need. That you don’t need to be wanted at all.