Fidgeting fingers and tapping the table. When will this conversation be over? Can they tell by the increasing tempo of the song I’m drumming to, that I don’t want to be here? The continuous clicks of my pen create a new rhythm, a new beat—one that will hopefully keep me engaged as the monotone voice begins to fade in my ears.
My pencil flies away; guess I’m not a master of pencil spinning yet. When I do succeed, the blur of complete, satisfactory circles falling perfectly into my hands climbs its way back to erase what I’m hearing. I rub my hands. My wrists. My arms. Maybe my face, my cheeks, my eyes. Working my fingers to keep them busy, threading them through my hair, occasionally going back to the song I made. I have to make sure I’m still here, still focused on whatever ghost is talking to me. Who am I talking to again?
My pencil flies away; guess I’m not a master of pencil spinning yet. When I do succeed, the blur of complete, satisfactory circles falling perfectly into my hands climbs its way back to erase what I’m hearing. I rub my hands. My wrists. My arms. Maybe my face, my cheeks, my eyes. Working my fingers to keep them busy, threading them through my hair, occasionally going back to the song I made. I have to make sure I’m still here, still focused on whatever ghost is talking to me. Who am I talking to again?
