Verging on Empty
It's an odd sensation. As are all sensations, in their own quiet ways. More than a tinge, not quite a tickle. The perilous between-stage that always seems to claim the most indecisive victims.
I'm one of those. And I fear that I always will be, as I tuck my head between my knees. You know, heartbreak isn't literal. I've read it more than once, but it never seems to sink in. Heartbreak is actually headbreak--all of everything originates from our minds.
And what does that say about us? About me? That I let it hurt me, that I define that hurt with something that doesn't even exist.
So is the hurt still legitimate?
I don't know. I don't know anything about myself anymore. That's what happens, when you don't use your mind. When you don't think, don't feel. Just let the pieces fall where they may.
It's a dangerous thing, this. I'm verging on empty. And to make it more dangerous still, I don't care about the hollow places.
My heart still beats. My mind still tells me to breathe.
But I'm saying to myself, Ouch.
And it's not literal. I have no scrapes. Or wounds. Nothing mars my skin except that scar I got when I was a child--when I fell in the gravel.
My mind told me it hurt, then. But my mind also told me when the hurt went away.
And this time? What if I don't care enough to tell it to leave?
Go--it's all I ever have to say. Go, and don't come back.
Ha. But it's a funny thing, having that power.
That much power, and you're usually scared to use it.
That's where I am, right now.
Where I am when I finally fall asleep.
Past my bedtime, a night-owl insomniac.
As my mind relaxes; for a moment.
When my heart keeps beating.