numb
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Numb

I have a box of colored chalk in the bottom desk drawer and everyday I’d take one out and paint my feelings on the wall. My words, my thoughts, my emotions, my dreams – they all come out on the walls in a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes.

But things changed.

Now everyday I just take one piece out and break it on my desk. I smash it and pound it with my fist until all that’s left of it are traces of powder floating in the air. I would have liked to continue drawing, putting all those images up on the wall except I don’t have anything anymore. No words, no thoughts, no emotions, no dreams, no nothing. I am numb. I think maybe I’m dead, except how can I be dead? I was not sick, nobody killed me and I did not jump to my death from a 5-storey school building. No, I’m not dead. I’m just numb. But then I think I’d rather be dead than be like those unfeeling motes of dust floating aimlessly in the air. Rather be dead, than numb.

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