(My response to a writing prompt offered by April Moore)
“I wouldn’t drink that; it has epiphanous traces in it.”
I offered a quizzical glare.
“Trust me, Stephen. If you sip on that, you may awaken.”
I set the steaming cup of tea down. The aroma was inviting, but I had labored mightily these past several months to develop the grey cloud that I hovered in.
My protective shell. My catatonic blanket, shielding me from the memories.
I preferred my sleep walk. Day into night had been lost for months. All had turned to a comfortable haze. What had formerly felt like profound loneliness, now was abstract solitude. I was no longer missing anyone, I was practicing independence.
Life as an island was a peaceful drift. Too much of the past had been in torrents, trying to connect with others, only to be cast against the waves.
Keep your tea, and your broken promises.