When you drive, you touch the wheel to steer it where you want it to, sometimes you take it slow, sometimes you want to go hard. You grab it with your hands, hard, and you accelerate.
My hands have stopped searching for you. I have driven miles and miles, and flew miles and miles, and floated in a deep pool, I have steered in all directions and everything stopped. I don’t know how to drive my legs in bed, how to leave my hands, and if that pillow can become something that can help me fall asleep.
Your hands never felt cold, but they did now. Your sleeping pose, so fragile, so hidden, as if trying to tuck away in a corner, has become stuck. The days go by fast. And they shouldn’t?
When I learnt how to drive, I had nightmares that I was crashing. Or that I wasn’t driving well and woke up worried, scared of what will happen. Will I go wrong? Will I lose? Am I just not that good of a driver?
Now I know that no matter where I steer the wheel, it just swirls unceasingly, never stops to a point, a direction. It goes on endlessly. I keep spinning and the dizziness hurts. It hurts till I can’t see anymore, till I get lost like a piece of sugar in a cup of tea. And somehow it keeps spinning, and the world and colors are altered.
Maybe it will stop one day, though, and then I grab the wheel. And just drive.