Uncertainty

I wake up. Uncertainty has tugged away the covers. Cold air snuggles around my sleepy limbs and breathes my warmth into its lungs. I have nothing to do and nowhere to be, but uncertainty doesn’t care. It likes me to wait. So I wait.

“No plans today,” I would say breezily if someone were to ask “it’s going to be a chilled one.” but nobody asks and as I drag myself to the bathroom at least I am spared the sweet torture of pretending that this is OK.

It isn’t ok but perhaps I am not OK? The mirror hanging precariously over the sink is smudged with flecks of dried water like the tears which come to settle me to sleep. It is morning now though and not the time for crying. Instead, I watch myself rubbing white foam onto my teeth with a bristled stick. I spit all of the strangeness we accept down the sink and am left with all the of strangeness we cannot.

I am full of strangeness. Perhaps it would not come as a surprise to say that it is not the type which is accepted. My strangeness comes from tugging hands wanting me to be somewhere else but in their effort, holding me still. My strangeness comes from my outsides pushing in; my skin trying to hide under my skin. My strangeness comes and goes. Uncertainty stays.

Uncertainty is in my words; in the way that they wander aimlessly across the page, take unexpected turns and settle in the place that they started. It is almost as if I have never been anywhere; my story is ruined by the fact that I know I end up here. Living in the present is living in a permanent plot spoiler and so, instead, I take myself to all of the places I could go, to all of the things I could be, to all of the things that aren’t yet written into permanence. I travel to the unknowns, to the unstable, to the unclear and all that is clear is that this daytime dreaming doesn’t make me feel better. When I wake up, yet again, uncertainty has tugged away the covers.