I hear the short wail. I sense the slight movement, - as oxygen, nitrogen, and other gaseous molecules accumulate, and pass, through my nostrils, down the back of my throat, and into my lungs.Abruptly,,thesoundfallsshort. My ribcage does not expand, nor does my belly. The air recedes, back out the same way it came, and I am left feeling…
anxious,
fretful,
labored,
worried,
absent.
Stuck.
More and more, I experience days passing by when the realization,
“It is 5pm and I have yet to smile” dawns upon me. I walk up to a mirror, lean my face in close, and look into the brown eyes staring back. There, there is no vigor, no spark. There, there is nothing radiating back. I am, simply, a body standing in front of a reflective surface. I am, simply, a living organism taking up space.
These days, I also like to a play a game with the camera. I hold poses, like I once was able to do with youthful ease, - straight, white teeth on display; a masquerading wide, forced grin.Immediately Iquicklygrab at the LCD. Had I fooled the inanimate object? Was my pretense indistinguishable? Can I successfully carry off such a sham?
No.
The camera doesn’t lie, nor does it play games, and I couldn’t act my way out of a bag. Yet, again, it is there, - nothing. And I am gone, - poof.
Obliterated. Escaped. Missing in action.
Obsolete. Deleted_____
Where have I gone? Where did I disappear? Most importantly, will I ever find my way back, - to the candyland of childhood where sleep was deep, and the dark rings of tension, stress, and anxiety, did not run circles around the cavities of my inner recesses?
For when I will my cheeks up towards my eyes, the sensation is odd. It is no longer normal. It doesn’t even taste good. I feel fake, inauthentic, and artificial. When I really look in to my own self, I catch the glimmer of a deep well of sadness and I sniff at a gnawing pit of anger. I hear the Oedipal call of fate, - it is my destiny to stagnate here in this numbing existence.
