draft 003
It’s Sunday, the third of August. Exactly 3:33 in the morning as I’m writing this. I haven’t slept a wink and I’m nursing a cold but drinking room temperature decaffeinated Spanish latte because I’ve put the ice tray in the freezer but forgot to fill it with water. Perhaps I ought to, three days ago, when I was putting back stuff from my dorm to our house. Now that I’m writing about it, it’s almost similar to that game of unpacking that I have on my switch, which I’ve never played but one Addie had already finished. But instead of boxes, my stuff came in ecobags and clothbags, in old gift bags that I’ve somehow stored in my dorm room, not knowing their purpose would be to help me place myself back home.
I arranged my books first. It’s partly because, amongst all the chaos, my wall shelf (newly re-fixed) stuck out like a sore thumb with all its empty panels of wood. It didn’t matter that my clothes were all over the floor — both clean and a two-month worth of laundry I seemed to have forgotten at the back of my dorm desk. No, that’s a lie. I haven’t forgotten. I’ve purposely let it create a soft, always-toppling tower because those days I didn’t know where I would go afterwards. To stay or not to stay? I ended up coming home because I had to, more than I wanted to.
The things inside the bags did not follow any type of organization. I remember just chunking whatever my hand touches upon a bag, and the next, and the next. I am out of my mind these days. On autopilot. My sister and my best friend would joke that I have become a type B, which both offends and amuses me. But in the quiet corners of our house, inside these walls I’ve known before, I think of how different a person I am when I returned than when I left. Under this roof, I’ve seen ghosts, locked myself in the bathroom and screamed in a bad panic attack, had myself checked by a priest, did online therapy sessions during quarantine, and dreamed.
This is an unfinished draft of an unpublished and untitled piece originally dated August 3, 2025.