Here I was baptizing myself in the throes of others’ misery,
wanting nothing but to remember how it felt when the pang of life was so full
it overflowed up and out each orifice. I felt the presence of gravity on tears
that, for once, seemed natural. To fight the uncontrollable convulsion of face
muscles, and the lack of will to direct where my identity would find
itself—alive, or flat faced, dying slowly, breathing its’ last fleeting gulp of
air.
I felt sick. My heart squeezed harder as I attempted to
understand how I should feel about what I'd just seen. Nothing made sense—I
buried myself in a book while the chatter of co-workers clamored in the
background, and I suddenly felt annoyed, angry—indifferent. Nothing mattered
anymore—I felt lighter, as if a piece of me had been carved out, or a burden
lifted.
My actions were impulsive and the impersonal droning from
phone calls were enough to make the wounds seem real. I held the façade,
focusing my attention on tiny holes in the ceiling and what they meant. One cluster looked like a cloud—I imagined
myself a part of it, lost in a shroud without direction.
Despite hasty driving, the ride home was long. The rain
washed through me like a feverless sickness and brake lights began to blur together.
I made it just one street from home, stopped at the stop-sign, and felt that
pang for once, wanting to escape—I let it.
