Pattern

It’s too quiet.

It’s like my mind is playing tricks on me because I can hear my heart beat echoing across the walls, surrounding me in this room.

My head is throbbing and I’m hot so I reach for the fan just to ease the tension but now it’s too loud.

I can’t find serenity.

My phone isn’t charming and I know it sounds desperate but I need to talk to you because you calm every nerve in my body without any intention of doing so.

It charms . . . it’s not you but fond memories tagging along with a face I clearly remember, a person I know so well but seems to know now, so little of, at least what I tell myself. Maybe it’s me I don’t know of, or who I am towards them.

My head is still throbbing.

Discomfort forms within me.

Somehow I block out the noise of the fan turning clockwise to cool me and it becomes quiet again.

Too quiet and from there on lies a pattern.

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