My lips hurt, like a lot. Not exactly my lip, but the cardinal structure of my face—it feels sore and strained—like tender beef that’s about to fall off the bone. I do my usual motion of roughly rubbing my face, sloppily massaging it so the pain goes away, but it really doesn’t work—I can still feel the stretched fibres of my skin. Nevertheless, I keep on playing—my neighbours must hate me. I suddenly stop and put my instrument down, getting up from my chair and inhaling a much-needed breath.
My consciousness slips, must be lightheaded from all that practice, I say to myself. My mind goes elsewhere, trying to think of all the other things I need to do. Constantly needing to stay on top of everything feels like a necessity, but also causes me to be nauseous to the point of waking up at night, wondering if I’ve done anything wrong or left anything unfinished. I think in incomplete thoughts, desperately trying to think of solutions for problems that… – swiping between tabs, re-reading documents I’ve written, trying to find anything that’s missing. I sit down on my chair, swiping between tabs, trying to get things done.
There are no words to conjure up in my head, only dazing into the thousands of words, pixels, and colours into my screen trying to get things down, as I swipe through my tabs to see if anyone’s replied. None of them have. But it’s the holidays, who wants to talk about work now?
My desk is messy, and random things are lying everywhere, even if I have nowhere to put anything. I’ll put it away later—but things become hard to follow or track, even if they’re only in my room. I try to lay back onto my soft, loving bed, but instead a huge chunk of expensive metal, fifteen thousand dollars to be accurate, hits me right in the back. I’m not frustrated at all, or even fussed about my newly bruised skin, but more concerned about the metal – there is a scratch on the bell, and small scratches everywhere else too. I wince and hiss at this scarily expensive instrument lent to me, and carefully place it back into its case. I forgot what I was doing beforehand.
There’s a lack of focus in my brain as I jump around the room, nervously fiddling with my fingers and wavering from one task to the next. I might be writing an email to three people at once, or jotting down a diary entry the next, or even anxiously waiting for people to respond back to me about extracurricular activities. Next, I am frivolously trying to sort out my hangout activities with my friends, but no one’s responding right now. But what’s the point of lingering around anxiously with a twisted feeling?
I lie back onto my bed, and go to sleep for the night. Things will be okay in the end—if it’s not okay, it’s not the end.
Writer – Emma Li
Editor – Josephine Sim
Artist – Maryam Nawaz
–May 2025–
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