Pulsar Days

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     It's raining.

          Or maybe it's snowing? The type where the snow is almost a water drop and melts completely against the window pane and drips down in races.

     I'm glad that I'm inside.

     It has been cold recently --which is why I have to give snow the benefit of the doubt. Because it had been snowing. There's still snow on the ground. And I had created a trail in it behind me when I had walked home.

     I think it's raining. I watch water drop down the window.

      But my breath clogs the glass with gray mist. So maybe it's cold enough to be snowing.

      Whatever it is, I am stuck behind the window, repeating myself.

 

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     God stands outside the window gesturing for me to open it. He walked without leaving a path. It snowed last night. The snow is still on the ground.

     He is 44 years old and has started balding on the back of his head. He wears a salmon colored button up, a pair of jeans and a belt with a large golden buckle that reminds me of a cowboy belt in a western. I have never actually seen a western.

     God gestures for me to open the window again.

     It is the type of window where you have to crank a small metal handle and the pane slides out but you could never fully open. It's a relatively quiet crank to open which reminds me of the sound of snow falling if only amplified a thousand times.

     “I have a task for you,” he says.

 

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      Tomorrow comes sooner than later, and becomes today. I feel like crying, which feels warm, which feels like eating a mushy carrot in a vegetable soup in beef broth.

      I'm standing before the window.

      It's not raining.

      Icicles are dripping like rain onto the ground outside where they refreeze.

      I almost fall on the icicle ice when I leave the house in the morning.

      The light outside is blinding.

      I create a path through the snow. Retracing yesterday's steps.

      I return to the window. I cannot escape the window.

 

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       Tomorrow becomes today, sooner or later. Smiling behind the window feels like I’ve cracked an egg upon my heart, and the slime of an unborn bird is sliding down my chest.

     The snow is more ice than snow today.

      I fell on the ice made of icicle rain. And then twice more on my journey.

      I had thought about singing on my way. To pass the time.

      It's too early to worry, I think.

      I instead hate myself.

      I return to the window.

      I cannot escape the window.

 

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      Yesterday’s tomorrow becomes today.

      The scenery outside the window doesn't change. I cannot bring myself to go outside the window.

        The icicles are dripping.

        Maybe I'll cut my hand on the tip of them like sleeping beauty and the spindle.

        It is so bright and white outside.

        It's dark behind me.

        My breath fogs the window.

        I draw the letter “I”.

        I cannot continue.

        I cannot continue.

        I cannot escape the window.

 

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        The window is in a small room. It's gray. It's empty. I stand in it alone, it draws no other people to it or to me, so I cannot be anything but alone.

      I hear things from the rooms beyond, my sister is home from work, there is the rustling of bags. And she calls out my name.

      I am expected to answer.

      I stand in front of the door. But I think I really should be standing in front of the window.

       The “I” from yesterday has vanished.

       I rewrite it. I feel queasy.

       I cannot continue.

       I cannot escape the window.

 

      Today's today and yesterday is yesterday. I'm thinking about giving up.

       I am also thinking about cats.

       I like cats. But I wanted rabbits as a child, and it was my sister who had wanted a cat. My dad had even made a hutch in the backyard.      

       I sometimes imagine how a rabbit would feel with its feet pressed against the cold metal flooring of that empty hutch.

       The cat’s name was Susan.

       I pretend the window doesn’t exist today, but it edges along the back of my mind like a squirrel hiding in a thicket of grass. Every sudden move is prone to startling it into movement.

      

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       I was asked yesterday if I saw any cats through the window. I haven't seen any cats, not since the snow. Not through this window. There was a previous window, a previous season, where I had seen a cat stalk birds underneath a bird feeder.

      There are things I'm supposed to be doing.

       I had thought about putting out a bowl of food for the cat, lure it back to me. So I could see it through the window.

       I'm standing before the window. And I write the letter “I” and I take a breath. And I look at it, my letter “I”. It feels powerful. I am asserting myself onto the window. I can do this.

       I add the word “am”.

       I cannot continue.

       I cannot escape the window.

 

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       Today is worse than yesterday.

       I don't eat food. I'll digest myself and release acid into my muscles.

       I stand before the window.

       And watch the icicles drip, watching the prison bars that hold me in grow.

      I think about video games-- I was never good at them. I don't have enough hand-eye coordination to be good at any of them. If I had time then maybe I would have tried to get better.

      But I need to be in front of the window.

      The icicles are growing larger. I could stand underneath the awning of the roof, waiting for one of the icicles to fall.

       There are things I'm supposed to be doing.

       I cannot continue.

       I cannot escape the window.

 

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      I spend all morning in bed today. I wear PJs till 5pm. Until I leave the house to get groceries.

      I fall on the way home. A quarter of the eggs cracked.

      I don't like eggs, I don't like their texture, but I need them for cooking. I'm standing in front of the window, practicing breathing exercises, in, out, blink away any tears. It’s the same with milk. But I don’t need to worry about milk cracking.

       Slow down, I tell myself, breathe, I think. I'm crying. If I let myself stand in front of the window. Take things in, one at a time, it will not matter anymore. I've done this before.

     There are things I should have done weeks ago.

     I cannot continue.

     I cannot escape the window.

 

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    Today, I say when I wake up, is the day I will succeed.

    I stand in front of the window.

    I write the letter “I.” I write “am”.

    I can't continue, but I'm sure I will be able to do so later. Or so I tell myself.

    There is tension in my body which makes me feel like I am sewn with too far apart stitches, too tight stitches where the fabric bends.

    I leave the house. It's bright outside. Blinding. When will it stop being winter? I forced myself to sing on the journey today. If I sing, I think I'll be able to finish it later. If I sing, I will be able to release the tension. I imagine I am a harp string pulled back just waiting to be catapulted forward.

     It snows on the way back, flakes whipping themself onto my face. Dousing me in cold. The snow flakes cling to the cloth of my jacket, cling to the fabric of my hat, and cling to the texture of my hair so that I return home a snowman.

     When I arrived at the window,“I am” had vanished.

 

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     Today I met God again. He is wearing a turquoise button up shirt today. I was on my journey to learn about windows. We were on the sidewalk at the underpass. The snow at the underpass is always brown and dirty, and is the last to melt, but at least it is not deep.

     He asked me, “Why haven't you finished? You're going to fail.” I could hear the disappointment in his voice, he sees a lot of disappointments and it makes him sad. That's what he told me.

     I don’t want to be disappointing.

     And I was promising too, before. Or at least other people told me that.

     I stand in front of God, this is the barrier between us, the window.

     I haven't eaten food yet today.

     I say, “God take pity on me.”

     God says he can't take pity on me, because he has standards and there are too many people who want pity on their souls. He says it wouldn’t be feasible to take pity on all the souls, that’s too many souls.

     “I just can’t make exceptions, you know,” he said.

     It's blinding outside the window.

     I cannot cry.

     I cannot continue.

     I cannot escape the window.

 

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    Today I think about the task. It is approaching. How many days do I have left? Not enough. Will I be able to bring myself to finish? I need to finish. If I finish, things will get easier, I think.

     (I know).

      I see other people asking questions, they are further along than I am.

      (I know).

      I can do it, I think.

      I stand in front of the window.

      I met someone on my journey today.

      “How is your window,” I ask.

       “Finished,” they say.

       “How?”

       “I cannot tell you.”

       And then I asked if I was going in the right direction. They said I should add a space after ‘am’.

            I go home.

            I write “I am “.

            I cannot get further. I should have asked earlier. Gotten further earlier. Then I might have been able to finish.

            I cannot continue.

            I cannot escape the window.

 

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            It’s a new day. Tomorrow’s tomorrow’s tomorrow is the date that I--.

            When I wake up I am thinking about the window, I feel like a duckling that has found itself in water for the first time, and it's just a bit too cold for my liking.

            Today I told someone that I will help them with their window. I don’t say I’m falling behind, I don’t say I regret this. They are expecting better things from me. They are behind me in terms of the window, but they are doing something different so it’s alright to be where they are. I wonder if I should have done that. But it’s too late now, I cannot restate my goal.

            Their window is foggy.

            It’s raining outside their window.

            I wonder if it’s okay that it’s snowing outside of mine.

 

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            Today is today is today. It is two days before--.

            I need to finish this I think. I’m in front of the window.

            It’s too much, failure is too imminent.

            I cannot continue.

            I cannot escape the window.

            I write “I am “ on the window. The glass is cold to my finger. My tears are hot on my face. I cannot see it from the tears. I fear I am too late.

            I am too late. I should have done this earlier. Should have asked for help earlier.

            It needs to be today. If I don’t do it today, when will I do it? Tomorrow? I can do it tomorrow. I think I’m lying.

            I cannot see the window. I am standing in front of the window.

            I cannot continue.

            I cannot escape the window.

            It’s too late.

 

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            Today is today, tomorrow is tomorrow. I stand in front of the window. And there are things I need to do that aren’t in front of the window.

            I’m hungry. I need to eat food. The doctor said I should have three meals a day. The doctor says I should not snack. I make a sandwich --spicy Italian sausage with cheddar cheese on white bread-- and when I look up, it’s dark outside the window.

           The person I helped before has moved on to a new window. I tell them about my window, they tell me that they are worried for me.

            My sister sees me crying. She says the window doesn’t matter.

            She’s lying.

            I have not continued.

            I cannot escape the window.

            It’s too late.

 

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            Today is today.

            I am in front of the window.

            Nothing else matters but the window. Deep breaths.

                        There are so many other things I would rather be doing.

                                    I do not want to be in front of the window.

                                                I want to be windowless.

            

            I get further.

            I do not finish.

            I cry.

            It will get easier tomorrow I think.

            As long as I get halfway done.

            Halfway done, I think.

            I cannot continue.

            I cannot escape the window.

            It’s too late.

            I wrote, “I am I will”.

            It is not enough.

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