It is all sensations and nothing at the same time. Feeling nothing is still feeling something. Emptiness: “A lack of meaning or purpose” (Cambridge Dictionary). A blur of thoughts. Here I am. Now. And everyone around me is expecting something from me. Is she going to speak? Perform? What will she say? Dinner at Five: What will she give me after? Nothing. I will give nothing. Then, there are trees. The type of trees you see in the Pacific Northwest. Great Pine Trees. Rivers—flowing, steadily. The current picking up to match the pace of the wind. And all these people around me—turn into one person. Him. Another him. The three men I think about most. Something about life. Something about death. There is wind. A complete snap inside the mind. The body, not following. Staying put long enough to disconnect. This is like a car on auto-drive. The only disruption a shocking one: something to jar the senses. Am I going to die? The cold hum of a fan, droning. Back home it never felt like this. Those are called “negative thoughts.” Try again. There are mirrors all around. A FUNHOUSE! One face is crying. That face is always crying. Then, a train. Words I meant to say but never did: I’m sorry. I love you. I should have been there for you. Forgive me.
Emma Grey Rose is a writer based in San Diego, CA from Portland, OR. Her work has appeared in A2, The Yard, Paradox Magazine, Osmosis Press, 100subtexts Magazine, Artvilla, and elsewhere.
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