He is lying down on the topmost floor of the yoga studio. The ceiling fans are spinning above him, all at different speeds, an attempt at blocking out this Nairobi heat. This place reminds him of the treehouse from school. It is a good memory.
He shuts his eyes.
The worst thing I’ve done to myself is smoke a cigarette. I remember people telling me to stop, that it would get harder, but I always thought I was above it. No, you don’t know me, this is just temporary, I’m not gonna wanna smoke when I leave.
I can’t sit still now. My feet shake to all the voices in my head, and I tug at my hair, trying to undo the non-existent knots. Is this all a result of not smoking?
Even my body is different now. It’s thinner. There’s a bunch of mysterious scratches only on my right thigh. My lips are drier. And there’s a recurring bruise on my left calf.
When did I lose so much control? Am I too much now, with the shaking, and the tugging, and the scraping, and the scratching. Do I need to take a step back? Not literally, but in the tryna-figure-out-what-happened sense. Trace the patterns, join the dots, figure out how I got here.
Wasn’t I so sure of myself? So sure that I am so funny. So easy-going. So laid back. So chilled out. What happened?
I’ve been told that things take time. That with time, things will get better. But look at me now. I’ve changed so much. Won’t time make that worse? The worst cliche in life is the one where people say they stare at a mirror and a stranger looks back. But it is kind of happening.
And it is terrifying.
“Hello, all! My name is Daniel, and I will be your yoga instructor today!”
He jumps out of the world in his mind, to the one in front of him. He’s matching with the yoga instructor today.
They’re both in blue.