The Writing on The Wall
Every night, as I’m about to fall asleep, I see it—the writing on the wall. Smooth lines drawn in wet, black brushstrokes. I crawl from my futon and press my fingers to the wall. I can feel the cold ink beneath them. It is still fresh, but the colour doesn’t taint me. I trace my fingers along the inky characters, feeling each line and its quest to make meaning.
I’m halfway through the sentence when my foot catches on something, and I fall to my knees.
My hand slides down the wall, pulling the black lines down into each other like a waterfall and blurring the words into obscurity. I hear snickers and the hum of the air-con. My toes are dipped in a puddle of ink.
Months. Six long months since this all began. Textbooks lay open on my kitchen table with tens of papers scattered about. Sticky notes and labels litter my apartment. I tried to make sense of what it all meant—transcribed the strokes on shoddy scrap paper and studied them for hours on end under the warm glow of the desk lamp. And I made some progress. Verb here, particle there, “u” becomes “i,” this stroke before that one.
I trace the writing on the walls. I tell the wall the barest strokes of my soul—that I like baseball, that my favourite colour is green, that I hate tomatoes. But the noise of the air-con gets louder; the voices sound like my head’s been pushed under water. Snickering. Laughter.
Smiles. And stares. At work, on the bus, at the bank, in the walls.
I dip my brush into the bucket of ink. I can feel it dripping from my brush, but it looks like nothing’s there. The fine hairs drag along the wall, picking up dust as I try to draw out the words. Wrong particle, wrong character, wrong stroke order. Too formal. Not formal enough.
えええ
Everybody always looks at me like I’m stupid. I press the brush harder against the wall. The bristles fan outward. I scrape so hard that the wooden handle chips away at the wall.
Stupid.
I carve.
So goddamn stupid.
So
I jab the brush against the wall, one final pointed splatter before I vault the brush across the room.
Stupid.
My chest heaves. My jaw burns from clenching so tight, my enamel worn down from my failings.
It will never be enough.
I pound my fists against the wall and a guttural scream rips from my core. My fingers splay out and scratch down the wall. A choked sob escapes me as I drag myself down—tears and flecks of drywall fall under my nails.
I sink lower…lower, the floor soft and rippling like a puddle. I feel the ink coming up over my mouth. No.
I scream. No, no!
I try to pull myself up, gasping for air, but I only sink deeper. Flailing arms thrash about as the thick liquid fills my ears and rushes up my nose. My eyes burn—the ink forces its way in, blurring my vision, corroding my retinas. It’s rising over my head now.
My limbs feel heavy. I can’t breathe, and all I see is black.
Thoughts upon completion
I am angry with myself for hours upon hours wasted
staring into space scrolling on my phone
pacing my apartment, headphones in,
daydreaming about a life I know cannot come to
fruition due to my lack of discipline.
But I just can’t let go.
And I’m angry with myself when I do sit down—set aside all distractions—and just study
or just write.
Because even then, I come up with nothing.
No grammar point nor vocab list burrows itself into my memory.
No idea flows from pen to paper as artfully as it is felt in my mind.
I am burdened by dreams
and driven mad by them.
I think myself a genius
a modern Shakespeare-in-waiting
I just lack the proper words.
I try to feed my brain with stories, but I feel my eyelids growing heavy not even half a chapter in. And I swear I love Jane Austen.
I am plagued by pathetic illnesses
and tormented by words that run rampant round my brain—forever just out of reach. I chase after them to no avail.
They fly farther and farther away from me, while I stand in silence like an idiot.
So much for that deep and intellectual point I was totally making.
日本語が話せません、and I am an idiot.
I’m an idiot.
A fool.
I know myself to be.
Because even through violent storms, I find myself incapable of refusing the chase.
When my vision darkens, I begin to hear voices. And when tears fall, I craft masterpieces.
So I stare at the blank page of my notebook and chew on the end of my pen.
Perhaps by the time the ink fully coats the in-side of my throat,
I’ll have found my voice.