tw: bad coping mechanisms, vomit mention, references to canon character 'death'
Hooks
Morning began with a barrage of thoughts. He'd barely had time to open his eyes before his conscience woke up and began to tangle itself on knots he'd been trying to untangle for several years.
What should he have done differently? There must've been a fixed point, somewhere just out of reach, that could've solved everything and saved everyone.
He needed to wash his face.
The sun had warmed the rock when he made his way to the little basin, which was more a bowl with a jug suspended above it. He uncapped it, and watched some water fall into the bowl.
His face looked exhausted in the reflection, and he ran his hand through his hair hoping it could undo some of the mess.
Mess. That's the least of his worries. How superficial, to worry about hair. His best friend is dead because of him, and he's worrying about apperances.
But he wasn't, was he? He only noticed it because of the water and— oh. It's overfilling.
"Blast."
He tilted the jug upright and put the cap back on, grabbing a strip of fabric and kneeling to wipe up the puddle. The sun's heat would dry it away, but he prefered it not seeping into any other of his belongings.
The bowl was still overfilled, but he managed to wash his face without it spilling further. He poured the remaining water onto the sand outside, watching it darken and disappear.
If the water had formed a silhouette, would he have cared? Or would he still be fixated on his hair?
Obi-Wan groaned quietly and headed back inside. Food. All he had to do was eat. He wasn't fixated on it, he'd only noticed it. Noticed, that was all.
Anakin could've hardly been called shallow if he tended to his hair in the mirror for a quick second. So why should Obi-Wan? Then again, he killed Anakin, so why did he feel any right to use him in his justifying his hair?
His fingers dug into his scalp. Why was this still happening? It was as if his world was but hooks and his days were spent getting caught on them. Today, hair. Yesterday, clothes. The day before that he'd seen a shape in the sand and vomited.
Breakfast. Breakfast. Breakfast.
How could he eat? How could he, after what he'd done?
He sunk down against the wall and pulled his limbs close, a tired sigh escaping the knots in his throat. This was good. He was showing remorse, that meant he did care. That he felt guilt.
With a trembling hand he reached up and ruffled his hair, too. This reset the day.
I wish there was a way to explain to non-ruminating folk what being stuck on a thought is like, and not necessarily a disturbing thought. I just keep on thinking about the fact that I think, that I have a body and I talk in my head and that spiral goes on for hours and it’s extremely distressing. One time I couldn’t stop thinking about all the tables around me, and like I only started ruminating about it because I thought “hm wouldn’t it be stupid if I just overanalysed all tables” and I did, and it went on four hours non stop. It is so silly but also hell.
