It Sounds Like I’m Dying

You’d think it. 

I’d say it feels like I am dying, but who the fuck am I to say I know what dying feels like? I’ve not died. 

My Gran, on her deathbed, she knew. But she had tubes stuck in her and couldn’t control her bladder. 

Everything about today sounds like I’m dying. The train goes by dully; handshakes are limp, and it is all fading. Aw, I am losing it. 

I blow out my ears - a failed recalibration. 

Janet is on the train, and I don’t feel her hug. She has just gone through a breakup. She is feeling it. I watch as she wipes away a tear and prepares for her stop. I sound supportive, but it also sounds like I’m dying. 

She waves at me as the train passes her. It was accompanied by a futile grateful smile. My eyes stood still as the journey restarted. Watching blurry buildings rush by with no distinguishing features, everything merged. Even the vibrations of the train couldn’t move my face. My stop.

The step-off lasted an age. No people waiting to board, so I had a rare opportunity to contemplate. I didn’t want it. Some drunk men say something to me as I pass by a pub. Ouderless smoke and defunct venom fail to have an impression on me. Homeward bound. 

The city lights are behind me, and things have gotten needlessly quiet. I stand on a pile of letters as I enter my flat. A pile of piles. Your home becomes eery when you’re like this. When things sound like you’re dying. 

I rest my head on my pillow. Dreaming had become a leap of fate as of late. Perhaps, they always are. My back seizes up as it tends to do at night. If you aren’t moving forward, you’re in pain; if you aren’t in pain, you’re dead. I take my pills, and the leap becomes a skip. 

There is no sound. 

Cheers