Have you ever become so immersed in a book that when you finally try to usher yourself back into the real world you feel as if its doors have been locked?
Like groping in the dark for a lightswitch, spaceless. I don't know which way is up right now.
Perhaps if I focus on something small. My hands. Fingers like brown wires, longer than usual, tighter. They look old. I wonder if age starts there and creeps it's way over your entire body, like cold if you are buried in the snow and freezing to death.
There is something in me right now that isn't loneliness--it is displacement. No one looks human to me.
I wonder if they were all body-snatched in my absence. Perhaps I was as well. Have I mentioned that I'm paranoid? It has been a long time since anything lived.
Funny how the feeling breaks as you write it down.
I think I need green space.