love, read, write

Morning is a burden for Ezia.

She is heavy, like the weight of a backpack's worn straps on her shoulders.

Ezia is not surprised when she feels Morning pressing against her collarbones softly as she opens her eyes and rubs them. With a small exhale, her eyes float downwards to a half-close, for her feet are still dipped in the echoes of a shadow which had been talking to her in her dreams.

But with time, Morning's palms are more tangible, more distinguished (from pressing to palms to fingers). Soon, she is leaning her weight against the area between the edges of Ezia's collarbones and the sharp of her shoulders.

Ezia swipes Morning away to the ground with a disgruntled push. When she kicks her blankets, Morning's cold breath bites her bare legs in retaliation. Ezia's eyes open slowly (for they are still sticky with the alluring viscosity of her dreams). She pauses, closes her eyes, then opens them again, her eyelashes fluttering as she squints against Morning's bright, curious eyes peering through her window.








"How are you?" The words are spongy in her mouth: tasteless, odorless, and mostly empty.

Comes the equally spongy reply, "I am quite fine. How are you doing?"

"I'm good." Skin touches skin; the apple feels soft in her hand. Mushy. She rolls it. Smooth to wrinkled, folds to curves. She swallows.

Her hair is tied back taut. If she tilts her head forward a little, she can feel her skin (especially near the nape of her neck) tugging on the hair, begging her to return to a dejected, unassuming slump. Her shoulders sag.

Her slippers (flippers, flip flops, shoes, feet-protectors) drag along the tiles as she ducks beneath gazes and greetings and slips into an empty aisle. Crinkle crackle crackers. Instant foods. Glossy wrappers and plastic bags. She touches a bag at eye level and watches as light bounces off of its surface. It crinkles inwards as she pokes its stomach. Lays chips. Original.

"That's a good one, you know."

Ezia turns around. To her left is an old man with wrinkles in his face (like wrinkles in the chip bag but a different kind of wrinkle--this one looks more soft, more real, more understanding but yet somehow more dangerous). His nose scrunches a little before he sniffles, "Kids like those multiflavored shit (he nods towards a "Spicy Hot Nacho Flavor") but I'm tellin you, these are the best." He nods. "Makin a good choice."

Ezia wants to say "a better choice is to eat healthy," but like any other day, Morning has stolen her voice and her thoughts slip past and scurry immediately to the other side of the world. They hide in China, under the arms of a little boy trying to fold his homework into neat fours.

"Yes," she says. She tucks the Lays bag under her arm in her shopping basket. It sits down obediently with a muffled crinkle.








"Why, Ezia," her sister's voice is insufferable. It's nasally, but it hasn't quite gotten the right frequency to fully grate against your insides (which is terrible as well). It's a voice that's kind of in between a husky I just woke up my voice is cracking atrociously, and a high-pitched c'mon tell me teell me what you're thinking because I'm nosy and I want to know everything about your life. Perhaps, Ezia pauses and wonders, the reason her sister's voice is so insufferable is because she has both. An embodiment of both evils.

"Why," her sister repeats, and she drags out the last letter like the way a kindergartner presses on the "y" key out of curiosity, "why, you should go outside a little more. You're like a hermit!" She pronounces hermit like "hirmet" and it makes Ezia want to crawl into a smaller hole.

"I will," Ezia says. Her voice cracks. I wi-ill.

"Wellllllllllllll," her sister's nose says, "you're just saaying that. Anyways." She smacks her lips. "I've got to do the laundry."

Laundry. Ezia looks at her bed. A few days' worth of clothes. It's almost like a concept sculpture, she tries to convince herself. Perhaps if I take a photo of it and send it to the MoMA they'll announce my hidden genius in depicting the horrors of human living.

A true artist.








Frying an egg takes science, art, and skill. It is a careful ratio (perhaps approximately 3:2:4). The amount of oil, the amount of egg, the placing of the egg, the cracking of the egg, the choice of spatula...

Second to hearing raindrops tap their thousands of fingertips against her windows is the sound of an unfertilized chicken egg sizzling on a manmade metal frying pan. Crackle, pop, sizzle. Liquid changes to solid under high temperatures. She watches the edges burn brown. She grips the spatula in her hand.

If her mother had been here, she would have said something like "what are you doing?" and perhaps she would have slapped the spatula out of Ezia's hand and done it herself. Well I'm alone. Ezia watches the egg burn. It burns to a crisp, ugly brown and, patiently, when the time is right, she flips it. The face looks up at her, smiling through nothing. It is a face of charred black, with small holes of lighter brownish yellow. She waits for the other side to burn. It smells horrible. She feels good.








Sometimes Ezia asks herself whether she is really alive. She cuts the egg into small squares and arranges them in a neat, gridlike pattern. She discards the edges. Only square cut-outs. She uses a fork and knife to arrange them quietly. They line up like soldiers, skin charred from working in the sun.

Perhaps this world is just a lie and it is all an act. Perhaps I am the only person who is living thinking she is living a genuine life. Everyone else is an actor. They are hired to make my life as terrible as possible. They are watching my expressions behind the screen. They are waiting for me to cry. They are waiting for me to fall. They are studying the arch of my brows and the curls of my fingers and the the weight on my shoulders. They are waiting for me to realize one day that this is all a fake world. This is all an act. I am being experimented on. They will pull me out and congratulate me and tell me, "congratulations, you've passed the test" once it is all over. Perhaps they will hug me and pat my back and tell me I've been through a lot. Then they will give me a bowl of Lays chips and let me sit in a comfortable chair. A golden retriever will come leaping into my arms. I will name him "Snuff."

Ezia looks at the squares. One of them is out of line. How dare you! She nudges one of its corners. She hears the fingertips tapping against her window, gently, softly. Mother nature is knocking.

She smiles out the window (perhaps the cameras are everywhere). She waves.

"Hello," she says. "I know what this is all about. Please take me out now. I'm ready."