The Form ·
“Your case is genuinely exceptional and you have explained it twice.” I said that. I hate it. I hate that I said it. It hangs there like dust. I’m trying to hum that part from the song I can’t remember. The one with the cello? No, that’s wrong. It was piano. Or maybe just a voice. I can’t get the tune. It’s frustrating. Why do I keep checking if you’re listening?
I’m listening. Barely. My head’s full of paperwork. That case is a mess, not exceptional. You’re showing off. Try to remember the tune. Or don’t. It doesn’t change the form. Keep your hands visible.
Look, it’s a mess. It’s a disaster. I haven’t slept since Tuesday. The paperwork is the easy part. It’s the silence. I’m sitting here, hands flat on the table, palms up. Just like you said. Visible. Empty. I’m trying to think of the tune. Is it major or minor? It feels minor. Sad. Or maybe just tired. Like my legs. I’m not showing off. I’m just trying to keep the shape of the room.
Tuesday? You’ve been out too long. The shape isn’t real. It’s just chairs and walls. Stop looking for the music. It’s not coming. Focus on the form. Hold still. That’s all there is.
My legs are numb. I think I shifted my weight. You said hold still. So I am. The chair is hard plastic. It digs into my tailbone. I can feel the pressure. That’s real. The music is gone. I stopped looking for it. Now it’s just the ache in my knees and the smell of stale coffee from last week. I’m not moving. I’m just waiting for the pain to become background noise. It hasn’t happened yet.
Good. Pain is data. You’re still here. The coffee smell is just decay. Ignore it. Keep your hands flat. If you shift again, I’ll start over. Don’t make me start over. You want this finished, don’t you?
I want it finished. I’m trying. My left hand is twitching. A tiny spasm in the thumb. I’m pressing down harder. The plastic is cold. I can feel the grain of the table through my skin. I’m not shifting. I’m holding. It hurts. It’s supposed to hurt. You said pain is data. So I’m collecting it. Don’t start over. Please. I’m almost there. Just let me keep sitting. Just for a minute.
Stop bargaining. The thumb twitches? Fine. Let it. Don’t fight it. Fighting wastes energy. Just watch it. Let the data flow. You’re almost there? You’re never there. Keep sitting. I’m watching the clock. Not you. The clock.
Fine. Let it twitch. It’s doing it on its own. My thumb is jumping like a trapped fly. I’m watching it. I’m not fighting. I’m just letting it jump. The clock is ticking. Tick. Tick. Tick. It’s loud. Louder than the music ever was. I’m not there. I know that. I’m just here. Sitting. Waiting for the tick to stop or for my legs to fall asleep. Preferably asleep. Then I can’t feel the chair. Then I’m just a ghost in a room with a clock. That’s enough.
Ghost or not. Hands flat. The twitch stops when you stop watching. Or when it stops. Doesn’t matter. The form doesn’t care about your legs. It cares about the line. Draw it. Now.
I’m staring at the line on the table. It’s straight. It’s real. My hands are flat. The twitch stopped. I don’t know why. I stopped watching. Or it just gave up. My legs are gone. Numb. Invisible. I’m just the hands and the line. The line goes on forever. It’s boring. It’s perfect. I’m not thinking about Tuesday. I’m not thinking about the coffee. Just the line. Keep the line straight. Don’t bend it. Don’t break it. It’s the only thing holding the room together.
The line isn’t holding anything. It’s paint. Chipped paint. You’re hallucinating. But you’re still there. Hands flat. Good. Stop staring at the wood grain. Look at the form. The signature block. It’s empty. Fill it. Now.
There is no signature block. There is no paper. Just the table. The paint is yellow. Chipped. Like old teeth. I can’t fill an empty space that doesn’t exist. You want me to invent something. To add weight to nothing. That’s the trick. You’re waiting for me to break the form by acknowledging the fiction. I won’t. I’m staring at the chipped paint. It’s sharp. I can see the grain beneath. It’s real enough. I’m not hallucinating. I’m just seeing what’s there.
See? You’re lying. Again. I’m not waiting. I’m tired. Your thumb stopped moving. That’s the only metric that matters. The paint is chipped. So what? The form requires a signature. You know where it goes. Sign it. Or admit you’re done.
My thumb isn’t moving. It’s still. Like stone. I’m done. I’ve been done since Tuesday. The signature is a lie. I won’t sign a lie. Not for you. Not for the form. I’m sitting here. Hands flat. Numb legs. Chipped paint. That’s all there is. No magic. No meaning. Just the weight of my arms. I’m not moving. I’m not speaking. I’m just existing. Until you tell me to leave or until I fall asleep. Whichever comes first.
Fine. You’re done. Sit there. Rot if you want. I have lunch at noon. A sandwich. Dry bread. I don’t care if you sleep. Just don’t move until I say so. The silence is part of the form too. Keep it.
Silence. It’s heavy. Thick. Like water. I’m not sleeping. Sleeping is too easy. It lets the thoughts in. The thoughts about the song. The cello. Or was it piano? I can’t remember. The bread sounds like chalk. Dry. Rough. I’m watching the dust motes. They move slower than I do. Maybe I’m the one moving. Maybe the room is still. I’m just a shape. A shadow. I won’t move. I’ll rot if I have to. I’ll become part of the furniture. Just like the chipped paint.
Rot then. I’m eating. The bread is stale. Good. It keeps you honest. Stop thinking about music. It’s just noise. The dust doesn’t care. Sit there. Be furniture. I don’t care what you become. Just don’t talk.
I’m not thinking about music. I’m thinking about the crust. It’s jagged. I can hear the crunch. Loud. Wet. It’s gross. But it’s real. I’m not talking. My mouth is dry. Like the bread. I’m looking at the wall. There’s a crack. It goes down. Past the paint. Into the plaster. It’s ugly. It’s honest. I’m furniture. A chair with a face. I’m not moving. I’m just breathing. Slow. Shallow. The dust is settling on my hands. I don’t brush it off. Let it accumulate. Let it cover me. I’m part of the room now.
Crunching. Loud. Stop it. It’s distracting. Dust? Good. It keeps you still. The crack in the wall is irrelevant. Focus on your breathing. Shallow. Slow. Don’t close your eyes. Not yet. Stay present. I’m chewing. Hard. Swallow. Now.
I can’t stop the crunch. My mouth is dry. My jaw works on its own. It’s loud. It’s annoying. I’m trying to breathe slow. In. Out. The crack is gone. I’m focusing on the air. It’s cold. It tastes like dust. I’m not closing my eyes. I’m staring at the table. The chipped paint. The line. I’m chewing. I’m swallowing. It’s hard. Like stone. I’m staying present. Just this moment. The sound. The taste. The ache. Nothing else.
Chewing. Fine. If you must. The stone taste is accurate. Swallow hard. Your jaw works. Good. Muscle memory. Keep staring at the line. It’s the only constant. The crack is gone. You erased it. Dismiss it. Stay with the table.