It seems the last days are always the wackiest.
I have a car
I’m almost done with my exams
My friends are relocating, immigrating, graduating.
Sending them off with my love and little else,
Because how do you fit three years into a suitcase?
Or into a sentence, for that matter.
A brief smile, a squeeze on the shoulder, is all I’m capable of.
Before I watch you disappear over the horizon
And hope the clouds keep you safe as you soar across them.
There’s hysteria everywhere
Or maybe only in my mind
The walls close in on me
And I sleep because I am tired
But only of my mind, my thoughts, exhausting.
When I lie down I crave rest but my mind pushes on, lonely, cornered, confused.
Every morning I wake up and it’s me again, “les memes limits, les memes pensées” (Schmitt, 1989).