watery tomb

I am camouflaged, immersed in muddy colours, streaking in the rain. I feel dilapidated.
I climb the stairs to the attic of the grad house. No one in the room, just empty chairs, tables, an ancient piano and me. No ghost tapping black keys, not this time, just scattered crumbs and coffee stains. I close my eyes and run my hands along the objects. The wood is cut and chipped, the edges are dull. Out in the blue, where the rain muffles light, my lens is blurred again. No one is watching as I twist and pirouette and deke out the furniture until I reach my fabric lover under the window, and I fall back, sunken soul in my favourite recliner, soft and ratty. It is dark in the room but I turn out all the lights to see the rain better. I like it this way. The surfaces are gleaming in the street. Students with heads hung down, heels splashing and scraping past the million drops exploding around me. I tap my fingers. Umbrella one, umbrella two, lost in step go me and you and Bang
snaps the screen behind the window, it flutters awake with the wind, and I see me looking at myself in the glass, in a room that knows more than I do…
A gradual panic begins to unravel. What do I know? I will never be able to leave. Leave my body, to escape my self, my thoughts, the endless stream of poobelle that plagues my conscience. This is no dream, I am terrified right now. I am shut up, cornered in this tight compartment. I am always going to be this rambling clumsy hulk, I do not know how to tear this back. Where will I go, to get outside myself? Maybe a love and fear of observation is the escape, a way to leave yourself behind. Bearing witness and bearing grudges, up against a world of inner space. It makes me wonder, it makes me sick, why can’t I leave me?
Avoiding reality, French class today bothered me more than before. I heard and thought I understood all the professor’s words, but they never made a point, not a dent in my head. He was constantly alluding to the effects of lexicology, psychotropisms, run-on sentences about how the author was unable to differentiate between sense and experience; it was all vagueries. Clever words to cover all the basis of experience, and he could not explain a single thing without using a metaphor. Those words I could not touch, words that could not reflect the feeling I enjoyed; me being carried on the imagination of someone else. Words that led you outside myself.
Of course I kept thinking about the room. It was my cozy cell, where I could not exist before this moment. What big sweeping statements of insecurity. What you had here among the furniture were conversations frozen in time and space, conversations that would not let you breathe. You cannot remember who spoke first, who left last, but the words are still hanging, a film of dust, getting old in wasted time. But out there, nothing is still. It’s really a torrent now, you could see it, cascading reflections of water stains shimmering back and forth along the street. Time to leave these reflections on pavement. So I stepped out of the room, reborn, and became a puddle. I was outside looking in, squinting through the rain, and as feet skipped around the puddles I thought I saw someone flickering in an out.