It's still here. I still feel its traces. A kaleidoscope of jagged shapes and dissonant colors floating in the space between my throat and my gut. They move as one, but I feel the turning of every sharp edge breaking tendon and tissue, lancing through every vein. Every piece is disjointed and disconnected, as if belonging to many different puzzles.
I try to walk but it feels like the rest of the world moves instead and I am always at the same spot held down by a magnetic force. I speak, but the sound does not come from my mouth, bouncing off the walls instead.
I couldn't stand the thought of being with another person. The thought of life pulsing at close proximity makes me want to vomit. 'How do you move like that?' I want to shout. 'How do you think that way? How can you ignore flesh and blood and decay when it is all around you? How can you think of fighting, when surrendering is so much easier?'
The Universe is very, very old. It is used up, crumbling, filled with patchwork and running on blistered feet. It is exhausted and my skin all but feels it. Sleep is what the Universe wants -- quiet, dark, cold, and lasting sleep.
