Incomplete Ideas

Fireworks sounded just out of my line of vision. I had no urge to peek around the corner. Here they sounded like muffled gunshots. No longer the bursts of color that used to fill me with wonder. No longer sparks of blue and red showering above me as my first crush stealthily slipped his fingers into mine. No more sweaty palms. Just bills, rising gas prices, a choking feeling of obligation to responsibility, and a resounding, echoing emptiness, of finality. No reflections on inky, rippling lake water. Just a sea of asphalt and street lamps that banish the complete darkness I long for.

I twirled in the semi-dark living room of my third floor apartment. I stared down at my billowing skirt, fanning out from my legs, trying to recapture some fragment of innocence in a world that was swiftly becoming too much for me.

I collapsed onto my sofa and let the room spin around me in jerky, sprinkler movements. When it stilled, the world was the same I was trying to escape. I clutched a small pillow to my chest, bringing my knees up to my chin as sirens erupted just outside. Quiet sobs escaped my lips and echoed, lingering in the empty apartment.

What am I doing here?