a soliloquy while undressing in the dark

I turn off the light, it gasps for breath momentarily and it's gone. I always leave the light on when I go out. To keep the demons at bay while I search for my own. My room has become a friend who has long accepted the fact that I don't want its company at times but still chooses to stay put. It's not always there but it's always there. 

I make the long and arduous trip from the door to my bed. Ahh the door. If you care enough to stop and pay homage to it, you can actually see the peeling white paint and the old wood beneath. Brown and decaying. But it is still a door that opens and closes for me just the same. And then there are the hinges, loose and creak-y. My mother comes to mind. But now, as I sit on my bed, my thoughts are suddenly far removed from creaking doors, old wood and my mother. I am on my bed, motionless...barely breathing I sit. Slouched, worn out, but still I sit. I sit because I can't and won't lie down. I still have one more thing to do. I need to undress.

My shoes have to go first. I carefully unravel the shoelaces with gentle tugging and careful not to allow them to slip through the holes completely. I know what slipping through holes is like and I would not wish it even for the forlorn aglets. And I love my shoes. They have carried me off far and wide. And always back to this room no matter the distance covered nor the length of time spent away. So you must understand why it makes me slightly melancholic that I have to take my shoes off. But it must be done. Besides, I have done all the walking I could in a day. And my feet are yearning for air. Give us air they speak in that hushed tone only feet could make. They need to breathe. 

I peel off my socks. Still as white as the first time I wore them. Only now, a hole has found residence on the whiteness of one of them. But it does not bother me at all as only I know of that hole. Or of the other holes in my other socks. Nobody knows about them. I'm good at keeping secrets. And it's a good thing nobody asks of what they cannot see. And I have long realized that most of the time people are only concerned about your good side. Or what they could see. "The color fits you" they would say. My socks have holes. And nobody knows.

My feet lay exposed in the blackness. Fretting and flexing. Like dogs waiting for a morsel for a trick well done. But I have no time for some thoughtless rubbing, not even for a touch. And my feet would eventually understand. They always do. They are not people. With my toes curled downward, I take off my jeans. 

Faded but still blue, loose but feel snug, frayed but conceal like a smile. Ah my favorite pair. They have been with me for a long time. Seeing me through mindless meanderings - chasing after names and faces. And careless though it may sound, they have even become more reliable than my own skin as there was never a time that they have given me discomfort. If you are uncomfortable with your own skin, wear jeans. They afford you freedom that you could wear when the need arises.

My shirt is yellow. And it's new. I remember being smitten by the color one hectic day at the mall. I have never been one for "happy colors" but out of all the reds, the blacks and the blues, this yellow shirt that I now wear like a hug seemed the most exquisite and all that I needed. And indeed, I feel the glow of the pale gold it has become in the gloaming that is my room. But now I have to turn off the light. The glow ebbs and the hug becomes impersonal. So I take it off and lay it beside where I believe I have lain the watch I scarcely look at because it makes me rush things. My hand touches a cold metal but it is not my watch but my bereaved ring which I still wear -- helpless and hopeless against the thought of a thought. I hold it close to my heart and I see the moon.