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Anna Oh is an aspiring writer from Singapore who enjoys exploring themes of existentialism. Her other hobbies include drinking bubble tea and trying to find her place in the universe.
the light at the end of the tunnel is blinding, a chaotic
swirl of blues and purples and blacks, though he
knows (knows very well, knows in his heart) that
it is supposed to be a brilliant, pure white.
he feels weighted, heart far too heavy to float,
(aren’t you supposed to float, he thinks, a little confused)
and it settles steadily in his throat, going lub-dub dub-lub.
his joints are stiff, too, as if he were a poorly manufactured
action figure, thrown around too often, left in a laundry
basket and neglected. he vaguely recalls that you’re
supposed to be calm, enlightened, yet he doesn't feel either
way, panicking as the light draws nearer, tunnel closing in
on him, like the jaw of a death dog clamping around his
throat
his heart goes lub-dub dub-lub.
lub-dub dub-lub
lub
dub
lub
(dub)
(lub)
(dub)
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