Daylyn Carrigan is a junior from Puyallup, WA, studying English Writing and Communications. She is a poet, photographer, and songwriter, who finds that inspiration strikes most often at three a.m. so she keeps a pen and journal by her bedside, hoping to catch the words before they slip away.
When I wasn’t looking, something else
moved in. My old roommate had stripped
the walls the way a fisherman scales a
fish, with speed and precision. Washed in
a sea of beige, the only decoration left was a
square mirror that rested between the two small
closets. This is where The Other Self lived. I noticed it
first in the flicker of a small overhead light, but eventually,
I began to see it all the time, from every angle of my boxy shelter.
I could see the coil of its hair, springing about when the figure
turned to watch me. I could see the fur of its brows,
shadows melting down the sides of its face. On cold,
winter days when it slipped through the thin glass, The Other Self
would follow me through sleet-lined streets and fever-born delusions,
monotonous treks from dorm to cafeteria to dorm, various
catalysts to unbridled loneliness. Loneliness, the kind
of emotion where you have to cross an absolute peak before
anything can get better. In this way, during the peak, we became
companions. One could not exist without the other, so when I needed an ear,
it gave me two. If I sought a fresh pair of eyes, it had a set. Between
blinks we merged, two ghosts with a single body. In daylight hours, when
the clouds are too wispy to drizzle and my skateboard can come out of hibernation,
it is myself that is in control. At dusk, by the pulse of the overhead light,
reflecting in the mirror, The Other Self reappears.
And maybe I am not so alone.