Who, who are you?

I drifted quite unsure. Not certain I had ever done this before. Staring at not a void, but a piece of wall that's image had somehow shifted from an hour before. A face; no animal stares back at me from the woodgrain. Perhaps though it was my perception that had changed. Have you ever woken up and wondered had you ever woken up before? Such a strange feeling; an oddness that douses you in a wave of uncertainty. Uncertainty of not only who you are, but your surroundings as well. My skin gets goosebumps as the hair on my arms stands on its end. Frozen, I want to scream. However, nothing but silence spills from my mouth. The shape onto the wall shifts from a blur to an image all too clear. An owl glares a my every flaw and wrongdoing from the grain on the wall. I force myself to look away. Feeling stupid and overly dramatic I shudder.

Beyond the confusion I felt a feeling of having things to do. The good thing is I don't have to far to go to find out what it is. I like to think of myself as a new age zombie, a hermit 3-day messy bun intact who rarely ventures out of the house for anything. Laptop in hand I settle down on the floor. Pun excluded writing while sitting on the floor helped me feel grounded. Granted the room besides the bed didn't have really any other furnishings besides a few dirty coffee mugs in a sink on the other side of the room and a dresser. Let us not forget the accessory no home would be complete without an overfed sassy cat named Zelda. The room however served its function it was a blank canvas.

What profession would suit an anti-socialite such as myself? I am a spoken painter. I pull words from inside twist them around and splash them onto the page for all to see. To be honest it is soul shattering work at times. To put yourself onto a page to be rejected time and time again. Yet here I throw myself into the cycle once again at the beckoning of my editor. Like a spider spins a web, words spun from my wrist. At first, they formed nothing just loose ideals, but before long shapes began to form. Ideas ran overhead dancing along waiting to be plucked and strung together, or backspaced. Writing had always been a love of mine or from what I could remember. Every time I try to think about anything or anyone from my childhood or almost any other time than now the confusion started to set in again. Writing allowed me to create a world that I never felt safe to engage in. With every human interaction, I overanalyzed, worried and obsessed, but writing it just flowed without hesitation.

To let the words in the air paint a masterpiece is one thing, but to have to write on every pop tart topic for money well that's what sewed the seed that caused me to start to rot. It's like having words pulled from your wrist until they lie smeared, twisted and puddled on the floor.

I am jerked alert by the sound of something hitting against my window. Acid rises in my gut almost rendering my legs useless as I got up to peer outside. An owl standing eight feet tall stares back at me from beside a lamppost. Alarmingly the owl was wearing a trench coat made of feathers.

"Whoo, Who are you?" It mouthed to me from on the street.

The image alone was enough to make me ruin my leggings, but the question itself set fear in my heart as well. Who was I? Have you ever gotten so much in a routine day in and day out that you slowly forget or lose who you are? You begin to think, "Why am I even alive?". While the thought of ending my zombie hermit existence has entered my mind, I just couldn't leave my jerky cat eat my body as I rot. However, I don't know if you can call what I do living. I exist. Like a unicorn I remain unseen however I doubt I hold the same wonder. Air, I need air or coffee whichever can supply me with the quickest kick in the ass. Oversized hoodie and baggy sweats on I cracked the door open in hopes of not letting Zelda out but that jerk of course had other plans.

A blood orange sky greeted me. While there was no sign of the owl creature everything outside seemed...twisted. I could see the coffee shop. but no matter how long I walked towards it it remained the same distance away.

My gaze was drawn toward the sidewalk where bulimic ballerinas were pirouetting, an alcoholic was dragging himself along the pavement trying to get his tongue to penetrate empty beer bottles just enough to find the last drop. Someone grabbed my shoulder.

A woman with cracked skin like porcelain looked at me as she picked a cracked portion of her face off, "Tell me I'm pretty." I burst past her almost knocking over a mother placing the large bags she was carrying on top of her child. I ran yet felt like I was going nowhere. Eventually after what seemed like hours I somehow ended up at the door of my room. Once again, a wave of confusion washed over me.

I could remember bits and pieces of my walk, but mainly I just remember the orange-tinged sky that set an eerie foreboding in the pit of my stomach. I go to the sink to wash my face, but don't recognize myself. Beyond the toothpaste stains and my racoon-esque bloodshot eyes I saw waves in the distance. Beyond my own reflection I could feel them crashing against the sand beating it for every defiance it may have head. I felt those waves crashing until I felt sand beneath my feet. In disbelief with each step the waves came closer. My feet stung due to the grittiness of the sand much like the grittiness of the truth. Near the shoreline lay a woman caught in a net taking selfies as she literally baked in the sun.

Dodging trash and seaweed I began walking into the waves. With every crash against me I remember more of my faults and past. Who am I? I am a liar, an unworthy sister, damaged, consumed by myself and many more things. Before I knew it the waves were taking my breathe. Not much longer after that I was lying on the bottom of the ocean, the weight of all my insecurities all my overthinking lying on my chest. Under the weight of the ocean, I lie waiting for what comes. In the far-off distance where you might because of my luck see a shark or jellyfish swam the owl creature, his trench coat of feathers unmoving. Luminescent words danced over his head turning into pictures as he touched them. One by one he plucked these images and strung them together forming a... a painting.

"Whoo, who are you?" It mouthed.

The thoughts from the crashing waves came back with all my wrongdoings, but out of the corner of my eye I could see the painting grow. That was it. I am a painter. I am the spoken painter. I see the lilies and paint them onto a page with a whisper. Does a painter stop painting because they are feeling blue? Of course, not they may just change their style until their mood changes. A feeling of peace washed over me as I knew my end was near. My existence was ending under the weight of the ocean. The air began to be crushed from my lungs. As my vision blurred the owl swam above me reaching a wing down to caress my face before those large eyes were in front of mine. "Whoo, Whoo, Who?" It whispered to me.

...

"Wake up loser! Your editors on the phone!" My sister Zelda pounded on my bedroom door.

I jerked awake air came rushing back into my lungs. Purple sheets glittered with vomit and pill remnants greeted me. Despite the air in my lungs, I gasped for air. On the windowsill staring at me was a large owl.

"Who am I?" I croak to the owl, "I am the girl who laid on the bottom of the ocean and chose to live."