She wakes up nauseous. Not in the physical way, not exactly. There’s a sickness of the mind and a heaviness in the stomach. The weight of too many choices pressing down on her ribcage. The figs are hanging from the branches again. Swollen and bursting. Dark purple skin splitting open to reveal their pink fleshy insides. Each one a different life. Each one a different version of her, ripe and waiting.
The kettle screams. She pours water over matcha while watching the green swirl into froth. The smell of lavender rises with the steam, faint but present. A sachet is buried in the lingerie drawer she never opens filled with lace she never wears. She takes a sip too quickly the sweet latte scalds the roof of her mouth. Another small violence to remind her she is here.
The train is late. Or maybe she is too early. The station hums around her—shoes clicking, bodies shifting, screens flashing the same news on repeat. She steps inside when the doors open, swaying as the metal tube hurtles forward. The overhead light flickers to cast shadows on a reflection in the window looks like her. But the glass distorts, stretching her mouth too wide, making her eyes too hollow. Someone exhales behind her. The air is warm and stale. A breath stolen and spent.
She moves through the city like a cog in a vast, cold machine. The office doors slide open with a hiss. The air is too cold, sterile, the fluorescent lights sharp enough to cut. Emails pile up. Meetings blur together. Transactions happen around her, over her, through her. A signature here. A nod there. Paperwork stacks around her desk like bricks trapping her inside. A man in a stiff suit asks her a question. She answers. He does not listen. The conversation was never meant to be heard.
She closes her eyes, just for a moment.
She is in Italy. The hills roll like waves, golden in the late afternoon sun. The air is thick with the scent of fresh lemon and warm bread, olives brined in saltwater, wine poured in thin-stemmed glasses. She sits in a circle of artists, poets, people who have no real jobs but wake up every morning with purpose. Their hands move wildly as they speak. She listens, but she does not understand. The words are foreign, the gestures theatrical, the laughter buzzing in her veins. A fly buzzes against the rim of a half empty glass left behind on the table to go for a swim. She watches it struggle, then drown. The sun sets and the office light flickers back on.
She is on a small farm. The air is crisp, cool, and wet with morning dew. She wears thick wool socks and an old sweater with a hole in the sleeve. Her fingers smell like raspberries, sugar, and flour. She kneads the dough gently pressing it into shape. The radio hums softly in the background. Strawberry jam simmers on the stove turning dark red and sticky sweet. Outside the horses shift in their stalls, waiting. The wind howls and the house creaks in response to the shift. She is alone but in the distance someone calls her name. She blinks to find that the spreadsheet is still open.
She is in a kitchen. The sink is full of dishes drying, coffee grounds clump in the drain. The warm sound of children playing echoes from the next room. The window is left open bringing in the smell of fresh baked pastries and spring. Small hands tug at the hem of her soft sweater. A partner at the table, a newspaper folded in half, two plates stacked with buttery pancakes, a mug of coffee still steaming. The glass fogged over from the heat of the stove. She should feel full. This should be enough. But a phone buzzes against the counter. She looks down. The notification glows. The office. The calendar. The life she is supposed to live vanishes as soon as she unlocks the screen.
But she is nowhere. She has not moved, has not chosen. The figs fall around her, one by one, smashing open bleeding their sappy juices onto the cold pavement before turning to rot. She can smell them—sweet at first, then nauseatingly sour. People walk past without noticing. She steps over the mess and keeps moving.
She takes the train home. The doors close behind her and for a brief second, she catches her reflection in the glass. To find that she looks unfamiliar the life drained from her once constantly dreaming body. She rests her head against the chilly window watching the city flickers past in smears of yellow and red. The train moves forward but she does not feel it.
This is not a story about hope. There is no revelation, no great epiphany waiting for her at the end. There is only time, pulling her forward. There is only the next morning, and the morning after that.
I wrote this piece after being inspired by the novel Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka. This has been a long time favorite since I was first assigned the novel in high school. But ever since, the idea of existentialism and living as a cod in a cold system has never quite left my mind. The more time passes the more I feel as though it is nearly impossible to break free. Writing and cataloging my life’s experiences is my attempt at doing just that.
I hope you enjoyed,
selara
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your writing is so beautiful!