Words by Natalia Prokopowicz
I feel the itch to write, could be what’s supposed to be the happiest day. So I get dolled up in the crowd I’ve been shown to fit into, and I sit where the others are in lace and innocent whites. Drink chardonnay for me in gloss, light wind and rain on the glass panes. I tumbled through the trees, expecting a loveliness but, from experience, not expecting the very best. That I start to feel bland against the odours, prettier that I hide my aching self who has longed for recurrence forever and always. Begin to feed off my own bias, chasing the camera only to wonder if I really look like that in real life. Do I appear so? Did that dress make me look big? Shouldn’t I be bright, excited, and dying of happiness? But all I feel when I sit there, back on the gold ribbon, uncomfortable in my own skin. Losing my confidence, my establishment, my will to live. All I feel is sadness, a great deafness, from the littleness in which I need to leave the room suddenly, as though I’ve consumed my whole existence. That very core staller of ickiness, my fearlessness of anxiety, my shadow, my hell, my sickness are there. When your old friend can’t acknowledge your success, the hand on your shoulder lingered a little longer as your other intends. To judge yourself almost, creeping up as if I wanted a redo. Blandly mixed feelings in a swarm of overwhelment, wanting the best for everyone as if they were your responsibility. To say my feeble goodbyes, missing some through the waves of head turns, side glances, see you soon, take it all in, farewell.