It is a matter of how it makes me feel, she says to the sky as it melts before her, the rain dampening her morning from the din of the darkness as it passes into daytime’s readiness. This window is but that, a view into a world of which I am not a part, a difference, myself having been disposed of, rejected. She turns away from it in shame, her heart having become heavy with a sorrow drenched in longing, as the patter of precipitation against the pane brings memories into focus, themselves becoming one with the present, as it all blurs together, one atop the other, with what was once elusive and distant now near in its definition.
It is a matter of what it means to me, this sensation, this crushing weight in my chest, she says to the ground as she prods it with a toe, her foot arched and small, drawing circles into the space she occupies, feeling as if she knows of this, the familiarity of it a friend of the cruelest kind when only the simplest of kindnesses had been her wish. How must I find fondness in this sense of otherness? She cries out quietly so as not to disturb, her awareness becoming sharp with an acuity designed for preservation, not for the observation of nothingness, her tea growing cold, as she stares into its dark depths, the earthy sweetness of it providing a rare, singular delight.
It is a matter of me not being me, or at least me not being what I feel myself to be, my sense of myself having been replaced by a substitute which works against me for reasons which remain forever far from grasp, she says to herself as she embraces what she knows, her body falling limp into a heap of helplessness, stricken, forsaken. As she lays convulsing, her mind moves within the emptiness of her being, long hallways lined with locked doors to joyful rooms, the disquieting quiet her confidant, the sympathy of the air as it lays still, itself offering calm to her sense of having disappeared but not entirely, desiring a final slippage so that she may no longer effect nor infect, she had meant nothing by it and so she sobs apologies to those never there, paper folded upon itself to construct fantasies unfounded, pitched pennies into fountains, the beginning of another day.