Another exercise from my creative writing class focusing on transformation from one state to another.
My head is throbbing with a persistent headache. My vision is blurry and my eyes tremble in their sockets. I squint in hopes of a momentary relief but I fail. I sit hunched over my notebook squeezing my forehead as if consumed with thought. I am sipping over-priced coffee and biting off cold cake. I am overpowered by the sounds of people mumbling, chattering, voice pitches ascending and descending, a nearby infant escalates its whine to a teeth-gritting scream, utensils clicking and clacking as if in tune to an erratic melody, the light goes out then comes back again while my headache regularly expands and tightens in my skull. People order and re-order, the air is thick with expensive cigarette smoke, the cafe shakes slightly as if tugged to wakefulness from a passing metro train underneath the cafe floors, a blender goes off in the background hastily crushing ice, taunting me with the reminder of my brain simultaneously being crushed with the mashing of everything that surrounds me in this sickly lit cafe.
I am becoming a red balloon. My feet slide inwards to each other as my left leg meets my right in unison, sticking to each other strong. The seams of my jeans re-stitch, overlapping, creating new knots, tighter, reforming, shrinking, dissolving, my feet move into the other, my calves melt into my thighs, my entire legs molds into a single solitary thing, disappearing slowly, un-existing, turning into a thin smooth thread. My arms are flattening against the sides of my torso, rounding, mixing into my ribs as if by a potter’s hands, carefully my head, my hair , my organs rotate into each other to become one round red shape, a thin plastic sheath, red and glittering, pumping up with a refreshing breeze of air, of life. I am a red balloon, ready to float and fly and depart the cafe’s chair as my launching pad. I am gently levitating from off the chair towards the ceiling, guided by the winds of change, floating towards the wooden doors. “This is not an exit” but rather the door of of a chance exiting me into an entry of something meaningful. I hurry towards the door and slide between the door panels when someone opens the door to enter. I am swimming through the corridor out on the street. The cars, people, decrease beneath my swaying tail as my soul flutters further up in the sky. I float past dying leaves that carries the stench of the death of a bloated cat lying on the side of the street, I float through grey skies as the sounds of the city quietens its volume. I am floating up high. I am up in the air, way way up, too high up and at last I burst into nothingness.