Oct 2016
As I’m writing this, I look down at the skin on my hands and watch as it vibrates. The blood pulsing, shaking with fear and guilt and all the things that become of me. I watch my fingers as they fling across the lines of a notebook or the gravel of a keyboard. Limbs that took years to operate, apparently, but it feels like nothing. So much so that I don’t feel a soreness from doing it for long durations. And boy, do I write.
When I walk around, I watch my feet skid across the pavement. I imagine my toes wiggling inside of my sneakers as they crunch elderly leaves and kick around loose dirt. Remorselessly squashing bugs. Forgetting about them the minute I step foot into a building.
When I talk to people, I watch their faces as they mirror their insides. Sometimes their voices fade in and out depending on how much I’m able to concentrate, but that’s fine because I don’t need their voices to understand what they are trying to say. They say enough with just an expression, and this is scary because I hope I myself never give someone else the wrong idea when I’m silent.
I’m a sculpture, apparently, but I’m real. Real? Real being tangible? Yet, to me, looking in the mirror does not make me feel real. Watching my hands as I write this does not make me feel real. Following my feet during strolls does not make me feel real. You know what makes me feel real? The thoughts pouring out of my fingertips with every word I write. The aggression that releases with every step I take. The nausea that sits inside of my stomach when I’m burdened with my sorrows. The tingle in my chest when I’m laughing at your jokes. The contentment of an evening when everything is silent and my head is clear. Thinking about my friends when they’re in pain. Hearing my mother cry from across the hall. The frustration of awaking from a dream once I realize it was only a dream.
My body doesn’t make me feel real. Half of the time I forget it’s there. My reminders consist of: mosquito bites and piercings, ******* and all-you-can-eat buffets. When your friends move they still neighbor you. When your relatives die they’re still here. When a love is lost your heart inflames with their absence.
These are the things that physically mold reality.
These are the things that suggest to me I’m alive.
These are the things that comfort me during episodes of feeling like nothing more than a wandering corpse.
When I walk around, I watch my feet skid across the pavement. I imagine my toes wiggling inside of my sneakers as they crunch elderly leaves and kick around loose dirt. Remorselessly squashing bugs. Forgetting about them the minute I step foot into a building.
When I talk to people, I watch their faces as they mirror their insides. Sometimes their voices fade in and out depending on how much I’m able to concentrate, but that’s fine because I don’t need their voices to understand what they are trying to say. They say enough with just an expression, and this is scary because I hope I myself never give someone else the wrong idea when I’m silent.
I’m a sculpture, apparently, but I’m real. Real? Real being tangible? Yet, to me, looking in the mirror does not make me feel real. Watching my hands as I write this does not make me feel real. Following my feet during strolls does not make me feel real. You know what makes me feel real? The thoughts pouring out of my fingertips with every word I write. The aggression that releases with every step I take. The nausea that sits inside of my stomach when I’m burdened with my sorrows. The tingle in my chest when I’m laughing at your jokes. The contentment of an evening when everything is silent and my head is clear. Thinking about my friends when they’re in pain. Hearing my mother cry from across the hall. The frustration of awaking from a dream once I realize it was only a dream.
My body doesn’t make me feel real. Half of the time I forget it’s there. My reminders consist of: mosquito bites and piercings, ******* and all-you-can-eat buffets. When your friends move they still neighbor you. When your relatives die they’re still here. When a love is lost your heart inflames with their absence.
These are the things that physically mold reality.
These are the things that suggest to me I’m alive.
These are the things that comfort me during episodes of feeling like nothing more than a wandering corpse.
