“Quarantine Diaries,” by David Garyan (Day 44)

Photo by Tigran Hovhannisyan

Quarantine Diaries – Day 44 April 27th, 2020

Trento, Italy

Invisible

My body feels no fatigue but still it wants to sleep. Since I sailed away from childhood’s port, no dreams have crossed the black ocean to reach me. How nice it would be to wake up under a waterfall of silence— ears soaked with shivers, eyes blurred by darkness. And how comforting would it be calling out to a parent, or anyone, for that matter, but really a being, a friend who can turn the color of charcoal into warmth, into light; sadly the nightmares of adults no longer matter—that is, unless, they’re seen with open eyes. There’s too little absence of glare when I close the door, when I draw every blind. The room is too crowded with silence for air to disperse. Is there a pillow the right size for my mind, and why are blankets either too small, or always not big enough when I must sleep alone? The heart knows its sizes and what's not the same. It’s best to open your eyes and stop trying— one day, everyone close to you will disappear like musicians, vanish in large orchestras, or worse yet, blend in in small ones.

So will you recognize their faces, so will you hear the voices,

but their hands will speak like the strangers playing beside them. Their voices will look like two parents— long after they get the divorce.