In this white room, I wish to remove the nails from the wood I stand on, so that the floorboards could be peeled from the gravity grounding them. I’ll find the authority to do so because I've already filled their cracks with my thoughts like the dust-like-sediments that have already piled up. When I do, I mourn to lie beneath them. Hammer the nails back on them if you please – tight to the eye, but loose to the touch. When I am ready, I’ll rise and face this fear of mine that is if the silence treats my broken soul. As of now, there, I could hide in still silence, but then again it still wouldn't be completely silent because I cannot leave my mind behind for a minute. The rug that lies above me would soak up my wandering synthesis of lost thoughts helping me until it’s to be filled to the maximum. When you find me lying there, I couldn't tell you what I’m thinking, even if I wanted to. I thought that I had words for everything, which I could always find refuge in my ability to arrange letters into feelings but I can’t. My emotions are the fickle disease floating in the atmosphere of this room contagious to those who enter: I. When I hear you walking on top of the wood, your toes I see from the cracks, you check if I’m in bed but I have hidden underneath the floors waiting for you to apologize, but you've let the silence do it for you.

-         Emilyn Nguyen