When Time Stopped…

Would you believe me if I say that I tried? That I spent hours journaling, convincing myself that it’s not the end of the world even though the anxiety tugged at my heart and weighed heavy on my mind offering a narrative that contradicted everything I wanted to believe in?

The clock in my room must be mocking me for surpassing the systematic design of clockwork. I like to think that, sometimes, the clocks get tired of their monotonous routine and takes a break. They go frenzy and struggle to keep up with the preset requirements of function. The dead batteries allow them to start a new life. I wonder what it must feel like to get another chance, to start all over again. Is the clock on that faded blue painted wall happy with the choice it made? Was there a new perspective in a new life? 

I might find some answers if I spoke the language of inanimate objects. For now, I can only muse on the what ifs of my own life; placing me in every other alternate universe that my mind can conjure, drawing parallels to my happiness and the dream life that I wish I was waking up to. These what ifs turn into seeds of despair, fuel to the army of crippling thoughts that fed on these possibilities and delivered a fresh platter of regret, self-doubt and of course, it included dessert, FAILURE. The portion only increased as my mind consumed this. 

I learnt the wonders of muscle memory. Every morning, after I woke up from a draining nightmare, the not-so-great sleep quality, my body seemed to move on its own. My feet touched the cold marble floor, my hands moved to fix my messy bed hair into a neat bun, pulled tight to hold my hair back from falling onto my face as I brushed my teeth and showered. Yesterday, I had eaten a burger, a party for my tastebuds, a shift in mood with a movie afternoon. 

But today, the thought of food did not appeal to me. Hence the breakfast was eaten just for the sake of checking it off the list of things that were included in the routine. Yeah, the mood swings were crazy and so was my appetite. Every time I tried to tame these emotions they always acted out like spoiled teenagers throwing a tantrum a little too early in the morning for not getting them that PS5. 

I finally make myself comfortable on the big brown chair in my room. It’s placed next to the bookshelf, opposite a wide window that offers me a view of the building next to my apartment and on the other side of the road. I don’t pause to plan out my day or bring up the intentions to be productive. I mechanically turn to my iPad, Netflix on the screen, the light bounces off my glasses, with changing scenes as my attention is elsewhere. 

When I shift my focus on the screen, I look straight into my eyes in that little black frame just above the episode playing.  There is no sparkle, glee or gleam in the face that’s reflected every time the screen goes black. I hate to look at it. But I continue to stare. My brain has possibly lost the ability to fire commands for my body to move and even on command, I sometimes refuse to budge. Wait. Hadn’t I seen this episode already? Doesn’t matter, I am watching the same show for the sixth time anyway.

The light fills my room but fails to reach those damp corners of my heart. I sit in that corner, rotting away, moss growing around me, it shouldn’t be comfortable. Then why is it my comfort zone? My escape from everything I refuse to face, if anything, the air and the dark and the small corner should drive me to the edge of claustrophobia to make me pick up my speed and run in the opposite direction. But I continue to live there. Why? 

I feel distant. My mind takes me on this journey and I promise I didn’t book tickets for this ride. That’s my daily dose of thought spirals to remind me of everything I wished to fix or forget. Again, something I do on autopilot. Like listening to music, except this playlist remains on loop and the artist hasn’t released another version of edited lyrics. Clockwork.

 I sit in my room, barely talking to anyone, friends distancing themselves and I bet the people around me have altered their perceptions of my image. They like to be around as long as I am happy and cheerful. The moment the sunshine fades into the cold chills of a winter evening, it’s too dimly lit and depressing for their joyous energies to tolerate. Just the atmosphere is not right you know? 

I could never express how I truly felt as I had convinced myself that their reactions would be that of concern and sympathy. No. I didn’t want that. I wanted to be understood and not heard. I didn’t want to hear, ‘oh it’s going to be okay soon.’ Instead, I wish they told me my dreams mattered and they needed me and they needed me to not give up. To make that choice that wouldn’t backfire and drive me to standing on the edge of a cliff willing to give myself away to the void below. Sinking and sinking and falling until I hit the ground where even the strongest torch could not reach its light to where I was. 

I don’t remember moving from the chair, tucking myself back into bed. I lie on my back feeling a boulder placed on my chest, my breath laboured as I close my eyes and loose myself into the darkness. The dates changed, I remained the same. My routine, the same clockwork; unbothered at most times, awakened by jolts of energy to set it all right. Those hours of journaling, the conversations I had with myself was like icing on a fracture. The perfectionist in me had rose to be the high commander of my mind and asked me to quit each time things didn’t happen the way I wanted them to. Imperfect routines were not okay to fix this and consistency is key, isn’t it? I diligently agreed and quit and restarted, only to quit again. 

 The ice melts and the bandaids could not hold on longer when the currents of thoughts came rushing back, the floodgates opened by the nudge of anxiety. What happened? It’s a long story to tell with less facts and just the intensity of emotions being the highlight. I guess that’s the downside of being an artist. But also a strength or so I was told. I learnt that an artist has the capacity to feel emotions more deeply and are sensitive. It all makes sense. The agony of being stripped away from the chance to live the life of my dreams interferes with the artist that’s being sculpted within me. 

It’s never too late. 

It’s never too late. 

It’s never too late. 

Change your batteries and start afresh. Just like a clock has a second chance, you have too. 

The whispers carry a delicate strand of hope echoing in my sleep.