We live – the three of us – in an 800 square foot flat. In some corners of the world, that would seem spacious, and definitely welcome. I do find it quaint, and bright and sunny. The wooden floors give it character and the large lattice wall enclosing the terrace gives it a certain kind of charm. The felines definitely seem quite pleased. Still, the sofa serves as someone’s bed and the lounge, and her bedroom. A teenager’s room, in the lounge. It looks chaos-stricken more often than not. The more room the teenager occupies, the less this leaves for everything else.
Mostly this doesn’t bother me. However today it does. I feel squeezed, like I cannot take up the space I need to, in order to prevent the chaos of my surroundings from taking up residence in my brain. I already have chaos rooted in my brain – the pathological kind that accompanies bipolar disorder. I have to work diligently – like a sort of Cerberus – to keep the mind goblins out and my sanity intact. Today I feel as though the levy will breach.This place feels so small I can hear the others breathing. I feel like I’m suffocating. I have no space within which to unfurl my being. This disturbing restlessness has become an unbearable weight, prowling, clawing its way out of my head, and into the very marrow of my bone, where it sits like a stone.
My thoughts have piled up like smashed glass, off to the corner of my mind. I feel like a half-creature, living suspended between the present and the future. Everything is contingent upon what will happen next. Yet, time limps like a thief pierced by a hundred arrows and wounded beyond survival. And so, I feel as though next will never arrive, as though my existence will pass through a series of nows exactly like this now, strung together like a fragile string of pearls.