It’s quiet here.
I sit in a big armchair, laptop in my lap.
Cars from the highway a block behind me kill the silence.
Sometimes airplanes interrupt the cars.
Not loud enough to drown the emptiness between my ears.
The furnace kicks on trying to force warmth inside.
The control pad for my home security system beeps, letting me know there’s a battery dying somewhere.
My phone goes off to tell me the same.
The house settles like it’s falling.
I used to hear water running from where I sit in the kitchen. I turned off the aquarium filter. The fish won’t mind, the last one died three days ago.
I’ve removed all the memories from this house, tried to make it a void. I don’t want them to finesse my emotions.
Some days I feel panicked anxiety. I’m overwhelmed and feeling failure at every turn. Fighting back filling that space with distraction. Sitting in it is like a torture without end.
Today, I feel empty. Emotion doesn’t strangle me.
I heard from a friend that they don’t know who I am. And I think, in my little void, I don’t know who I am either.
Did I change or was I just better at pretending the mask wasn’t a mask.
I don’t have an answer. “I don’t know,” is my new default response.
Most days I don’t open the drapes. I don’t let the light in.
I won’t let the neighbors’ eyes in.
Maybe I feel empty because I’m sick. Yeah, that must be it. It’s an excuse that will work for a little while.
An old man once named me “Little Dreamer,” then died two weeks later.
I never had the chance to ask him if I’m still dreaming. I never stood a chance.
I could fall asleep right now. Sleeping forever wouldn’t be so terrible.
