My eyes burn. The feeling is so acute that I expect to see some visible sign, that my eyes are bloodshot and half hanging out of my head. However, that is not the case. I look the same as always. Maybe a little tousled, a little frayed at the edges. It is disappointing, to look so normal while feeling so thoroughly unlike myself. I tilt me head this was and that, inspecting the familiar plains of my face in the too bright bathroom light. The light is loud. It unleashes some unholy cacophony of sound in my head. I squint and flee from the room, and shrink into the safety of soft lighting.
It is understood that no one is allowed to touch the light switches. At no point is anyone to turn on an overhead light. Much like Mariah Carey I will only be lit from the sides with warm light. Every room has an assortment of lighting options. There are standing lamps with frilled shades, desktop lamps rescued from verges, and enough candles to hold Sunday mass. I have accumulated the lamps over many years with no real plan or vision in mind. The effect is somewhat chaotic, but I like it. I’ve never much gone in for matching décor – or anything that could be described as minimalist. I am, in fact, a maximalist. My house is an explosion of color and pattern and shape. My brother describes it as an assault on the senses. Although I can think of nothing more assaulting than millennial grey and art gallery ‘chic’ that has taken hold of most people’s homes.
I fold myself into my favorite chair – it is a huge 70’s egg chair with sage green corduroy upholstery. My body aches. My femur grinds into my pelvis as I fidget in a futile attempt to find a comfortable position. My inner thighs protest whenever they get too close to each other. My lower back arches, and my ribs creak with the expansion of each inhalation. I give up with a sigh and my shoulders collapse, drooping downward in a frown. I pick up my book and a mug of tea that's heat radiates through my hand. Today the book feels unnecessarily big. I struggle to manage the tome in one hand. After a few frustrating moments I give up and place the thing in my lap, my hand holding the spine open, undoubtedly cracking it in the process. My eyes drag back and forth across the pages, but I fail to recognize any of the words. My brain has all but stopped cooperating. My head wobbles on my neck and I let it fall back into the embrace or the cushion. I squeeze my stinging eyes shut and visualize the walk down the hall and to my bed. It’s just a few steps, it couldn’t be more than 20 meters.
My exhaustion is complete and consuming. I think I’ll sleep here tonight.
Your descriptions always blow me away Evelyn. You are certainly a master of the words. I particularly liked the line —
“Much like Mariah Carey I will only be lit from the sides with warm light.”
Keep em coming :)