Breaking Point

The pale skin on my forehead is driving up my skull; supported by my hands, the pillars to my shame. If only I could just sink below the vast sea around me, through the seafloor and into my safe haven. Yet, here I am, lost out in a ocean of hate, struggling to stay afloat, dreading the time when the waves surrounding me decide to strike. I can just feel them sucking me in closer and closer. God dammit. I wish I was normal.

Amidst the deafening sound of silence, the moon rises over the sea of faces waiting to be released into the world outside. The door swings open, I watch and wait until every last drop of hate pours through the door. I grab my books and bolt through the exit; I don't have much time until the library fills to the brim and leaks into my precious spot. Anyone who saw my spot would understand why I call it precious. It’s the island I escape to when the waves overwhelm me. The trees on each side allow just enough light for me to read, but block out the searching eyes of the ocean surrounding me. I spend most of my time in here, reading mostly. It’s interesting how people talk about ‘spending’ time. I guess it makes sense, except for the fact that my time doesn't seem to be worth as much as yours.

I can feel the soft sand of the island under my feet as I walk up the staircase in the library. These stairs are an essential component to the overall safety of my spot. They allow my laughter and my sobs, on days like today, to roam and ricochet, not quite reaching the ocean outside. The tears roll slowly down my cheek, cling to my eyelashes and the cove under my nose. They finally reach the end of their journey and splash onto the fabric of my pants, taunting and reminding me of how lonely I really am. I have given up reading my new book as my tears cloud each page, turning the words into meaningless blotches.

A stray wave has broken away from its motherland, rolling up the staircase towards me. I could sense his desperation, he has never come this far alone before. I curl up in a ball and brace for the impact. Hour long seconds pass, still I am untouched. I look up to witness the figure crumple before me. His noble head drapes as he seeks rapport. Shoulders aligned with the floor resembling a defeated soldier retreating post-war. What is a wave without an ocean? Nothing, it is a lot less than me. I guess even waves have a breaking point.