of Our Bedrooms C
COLUMN
‘Projections’
Are you in there? Are you okay? When you come upon the surface, its membrane chokes you awake—in increments, you drift downward, inward, return to yourself. The lamp casts a long arm of light across your roof, its centre carved out by tangled shadows. Your housemate’s voice, warm and booming, sets the wobbling room steady. Its heat doesn’t quite reach you, but, like light, breaks and scatters outward from a point. You’re so far from land you’ve forgotten the feeling of grass underfoot, of a hand in your hand. A series of knocks aggravates the still air, the shell of your body at rest. And then everything else leaks in—everything that, before, had been softened by the cupped palms, the quiet breath of your sleep. The itch of carpet against your cheek, the voices, the bright moonlight, all bundled together and newly naked. Its violence shifts your inertia. You rise toward the lamp, toward the promise of unbroken sleep—something catches your toe and you grab the nearest— Set in perpetual motion, the shadows wave their many arms. They dance in tattered dresses, made from a fabric somewhere between vapour and liquid. Some wear long strings of beads. You’ve known they were there all along, taking up space as pockets of darkness. They’ve only emerged because you’ve robbed them of something. Wandered, somnambulant, into their fellowship, only to cut a hole in the lattice of their prayers. Come on, I’ve been waiting for so long. Their features are smudged so you can’t match voice to mouth. Laughter ripples through their bodies like wind behind a curtain. You reach out with a single arm. One by one, they follow. Their minds have been chiselled to match yours, long emptied of the promise of sun, of trees, of fruit. A ball of pity rises within your stomach. Their words roll into your throat, mocking, crying out for land, for a hand to hold. Wishful singing. Singing, singing— The sand shifts under your palm, and just as soon, gives way to the coarse grip of carpet. You stumble upon something lined with plastic. Hair hanging and tangled with salt, you lean over. I’m sorry. I’ll be there soon.
Illustrated by Rose Gertsakis
65
