A Story About Feeling Nothing At All
No, there is no room for anything else but numbness here.
Let me just say: The numbness that sits inside my chest was uninvited. But still, I allowed it to stay, instructed it to leave its shoes at the entryway of my being, take off its coat, and make itself at home.
And so, it did.
The numbness that sits inside my chest does not have a name but it has a presence so pervasive I simply can’t ignore it. That would be rude to do a guest anyway, and so I offer it tea and my past, present, and future. I ask what it needs to be comfortable and it says, “Time.” Just a little time and it will settle in nicely in between the spaces of my ribcage and in my deflated lungs.
The numbness that sits inside my chest has made itself at home and I see it all happening from the outside. It’s coloring on my walls and painting in my eyes and completely rearranging my spine into something that resembles clay more than bone. I scream at it to stop, that this is my life, but no noise comes out. Or maybe it hears me and just doesn’t care.
The numbness that sits inside my chest won’t get the fucking hint that its time is expired and my hospitality is worn. As I squint my tired eyes, I see it has now hung a “No Vacancy” sign, letting anything else know there is no room for it here.
No, there is no room for anything else but numbness here.
