Stars [A Rin Monologue] - First Draft

It’s like that buzzing feeling you get in the back of your mind when all you want to do is bite your lip and hope it goes away but it doesn’t go away so at the end of the day all you’re left with is a sore lip and the feeling of a swarm of bees or maybe it’s whales floating around all of your veins. Or maybe it’s like that feeling when you can’t stop thinking about something but you don’t want to think about something because it feels like a heat wave or maybe a cold front sweeping your entire body from your pants to your brain and there’s nothing you can do about it but be uncomfortable until it stops. But it won’t stop.

It’s frustrating, like the itchiest kind of itch in the one spot you can’t reach when you try to scratch it. Or maybe it’s frustrating like when you finally figure out the answer to something you’ve been thinking about but when you go to apply it you can’t remember it again. Or maybe it’s frustrating like using toilet paper with no arms after a really bad day. That’s pretty frustrating. Not as frustrating as this, though. Maybe.

I’m thinking of four things right now. Handrails. My left knee. The second washing machine to the left in the laundry room in the girl’s dorm. This paintbrush.

I really hope the laundry room is empty after class. That washing machine is my favorite washing machine. It washes really well. It also is like a rocket ship trying to separate from the floor and blast off into the clouds. Maybe it will one day. I like to ride it and hope.
Wait, is it Friday? It’s Friday. It’ll be crowded. Huh. Handrails, then.

I wonder how they feel...

…

Paintbrush. I want to paint. I need to paint. I don’t really know what. Nothing planned. Maybe something that can capture this burning, freezing, swooping sensation. Maybe it’ll be good to shift positions a bit. Maybe.

This canvas is too rough.

This paint is too dry.

This classroom is too hot. Or maybe it’s too cold. Or maybe it’s like that really cold hot where it gets so hot it turns cold and then wraps all the way back to cold again, but it’s still hot. You know?

I know.

A stroke here. A stroke there. Just a hint of some kind of relief. Maybe if these colors weren’t so flat I could actually do something with them. They’re flat like a pancake. Or the top of that washing machine. I need to reorient myself. Close my eyes for a moment. Think. Breathe. Be.

More paint. Different combinations this time. Violent strokes. Strokes on top of strokes. Just a bit more relief. But it feels different. Maybe the fire is getting brighter, or maybe it’s hotter. I feel like I’m in the middle of a field, but it’s like a field made out of fields or maybe it’s made out of stinging nettles or poison ivy because everything is so damn itchy all of a sudden.

Stroke. Stroke. Stroke.

I’m floating now. Floating above the field. Away from the burning and away from the nettles but it’s not enough. Not yet. It won’t be enough until I can get away from it. Annoying.
Another stroke. Another brush.

Higher I’m floating. Up to the clouds. I feel just fine when I look at the clouds. Think of the sky and you can’t think of anything else until you stop. But it’s stopping too soon. Too soon for me.

Painting faster. Faster and faster. Maybe my feet will start to burn. Maybe the canvas will start to burn. Maybe they’ll burn together. I don’t know what that would look like. Maybe it’s what I need it to look like. Or maybe not.

The stars. The stars in my eyes. The stars in the sky. The buzzing is starting to stop, or stopping starting, but it might just be getting so loud that I can’t hear it anymore. They’re glowing bright, bright and white. Brighter than anything I’ve seen. I want to stop. But I can’t stop.  Know it’s nearly done.

It’s nearly done.

I count the stars in my eyes. So many. Too many. Always glowing brighter and brighter. The kind of white you want to taste. The beacons of light you see when you know you can finally see again. Some people would be afraid of how the lights just seem to be glowing brighter and the buzzing just seems to be growing quieter and the heat is dying and the cold is warming but I know. I know that it will be all right. Because I can count the stars, and it seems like I can do anything when I’m counting stars.

Deep breaths.

I can feel the paintbrush drop from my limp toes, clattering to the floor. I can feel the sweat on my skin and the eyes of everyone on me. But I know that it will be all right.

And that when they see the painting, they’ll understand.