The running faucet illuminates the idea that something more superficial yet less beneficial than counting tiles on the shower wall is going on. Paralyzed.
I envision all these words forming behind my eyes but I don't feel like the person illustrating them; I lack certain qualifications. Frozen.
I should be crying. Shouldn't I? I should be moving, but I can't. Breathing? I don't want to. I have no interest in coping.
I turn the faucet off and feel the steam gently burn my hand. I've manipulated the outside into allowing me an extended time to sit there and just be. Exist.
I've also earned more minutes to dedicate to the further admiration of the shower tiles. The furthest I've gotten thus far is 32. The phone keeps ringing. Ringing, ringing.
How am I supposed to concentrate on the shower tiles if the phone won't stop ringing?
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