Untitled, Unfinished.

I've become quite fond of my spot on the bed. The internet connection is strongest there, right on my bedside table, below photographs of all of us as children. I can see the corner of Bridge Road from my spot, there are a few trees, some oddly placed palm trees outside of the window. From here, I see endless airplanes arrive and take off. I imagine the people on those airplanes, where they are going, how happy they are to arrive here, the tricks their minds have played on them by creating false pretenses of what this island should be. The sun falls with the night, making room for a moon that's been visible all day. Shadows lie on the tree canopies, warmth fades from the building facades, another plane goes by. As the minutes pass, I get closer and closer to my favorite part of the day, soon she will be home, we will fill this room with smoke and words, the scent of 5 dollar vegetable curry from down the road. Not much longer until she arrives but in the mean time, here I sit, slippery in dirty sheets. The blonde woman next door is screeching again, she makes wretched noises and I'm always half afraid she's going to start banging on our door, pull my hair and scream at me as I walk to the toilet. This morning, she woke me up an hour before I had to rise, complaining about being embarrassed. There isn't' even anyone in there for her to complain to, and it's 5:30 in the morning, what is there to be embarrassed of?

My mind has never been clearer or more confused. There is nothing for me to know except myself while I'm on the other side of the world. Nothing matters to me or anyone, because I am barely reality. I feel myself fading away, a ghost in everyones memory. Well, maybe not everyone. It's hard to feel that way, like I'm standing on a corner waving my arms yelling, "HERE I AM, I AM RIGHT HERE!" but the oncoming traffic drowns out all my noise and my loved ones continue on living their lives like I don't exist. I remember coming home from New Zealand, I remember sitting in our bed and feeling dumbfounded at the way he continued on about himself, about them, never once did he ask how my trip went, what I learned, what happened to me. I feel that way now, already. I feel it from my emails, from the lack of responses. I've never had so many things figured out, so many thoughts to share, so many questions to ponder and so little company to share them with. They go unshared, as she is just as much me as I am myself, and therefore I cannot share anything she already knows and feels too.