<- Go back to Fiction WorksI woke up on a summer day, and I knew well the importance of waking up and the importance of being alive. I knew that very well, but that did not mean that I was not bothered by the sensation. Every time it went, it hurt, and it hurtled me downward. I felt the stinging pain on my lowering back around my waist, and I felt my legs and back hiss. It was a banal moment that passed away.
I looked around me, and I knew well that any attempt at reaching out would only produce an idle feeling, that sensation of being there and being utterly absent.
I think that at one point, it did make sense.
I saw dogs parting in front of me, and it felt as though there was nothing else in this world that could ever feel so circular. The idea of a person existing and then abruptly ceasing to exist felt so natural, bound, and divinely ordained, as if we have been herded into a pen to be burned and to be sent to the most divine slaughter, in hopes that some of us are renewed and reborn into heavenly graces. That perfect body that I wanted, that of being one with Christ, was distant, ever removed, the alienation barking at my reaching eyes.
I felt something, and it abruptly ended.
Silence was looming.
I heard voices behind me and around me. I heard them singing songs, and I heard them telling others what it felt like to be alive.
I could not, and I could not imagine. I could not think.
I just deflated and fell into a senseless non-embrace.
The things that I do, I do because I recognize well what must be done.
The worst part was that it was the best thing that has ever happened to me, and there was nothing else to say but that. That was the moment when everything contracted and fell to the ground.
I think that was all it was really.
I think that I felt something, and there was something real at that moment. But it slipped away, quite quickly, and then, it faded, with nothing else adding on top of it. I felt that I had something deep in my soul that sought to become understood, and I feared that there was something trying to get me. That kind of a feeling made me squirm, even as I sit still on my chair.
That was the epitome of that silence and that essence of solitude.
I have seen too many people, and each of them has been, just as they have they occurred to me invisible objects—things that are but remain to be unseen, because there is in me a lack of a sensation for them.
That is the issue of invisibility that I’ve been dealt.