I was in a rush to leave. I still had another ten minutes before my bus was due to leave, but my paranoia kicked in. I couldn't be late. No matter how much I would've like to have stayed in Knoxville, I knew that catching this bus would be one of the most important things I've ever done.
I gathered my things, shouldered my bag, and waved goodbye to Alice, making sure she knew I'd left my money on the table. She waved back and smiled at me. A hundred different thoughts flashed through my head. How much time did I have left? What if I was late? What if there was a cop waiting for me at the station? What if after what if. My mind had drifted, and in that brief moment of lost focus, I caught a glimpse of Alice from the corner of my eye. I saw her. Usually, I can't make out any distinct shapes, but it was definitely her. Her body itself was dark but covered in a thousand small specks of light. The whole sensation only lasted a few seconds--just long enough for me to reach the door, but it was like walking past the clear night sky, unable to look up. It was beautiful. She was beautiful.
I don't know what this is. I don't know what's happening to me. I keep my face buried in books because I'm too afraid to look up. I'm too afraid to see what the world is really made of. Is it a reflection? Do I see the world in metaphors? When I see people as gray blurs or shining stars, am I seeing inside them? Or am I seeing only what I want to see?
I have too many questions and jackshit for answers. Maybe I should have told Dr. Reynolds when I had the chance. Maybe he knows something about this. I might not be the only one. Doctors know all sorts of things about weird reactions, right? There I go again with the questions. It's too late now, though. I can't go back. Sometimes you have no choice but to keep going forward, like being caught in a current.
I'm tired. My back hurts, and my legs are going numb. I feel like a loose thread. I'm starting to realize why all those other passengers shuffled around in a daze like that. Something about this--the bus or the constant traveling or something--wears you out, stretches you to the point where you can't think clearly. You want nothing more than to stop, but you can't. You can't struggle, and you can't look away. You aren't hungry, but you're empty. You have no choice but to accept it. This is the current. This is the river I'm stuck in.
Maybe I am going crazy.
I wanted to read some more while it was still light. I felt like diving back into Kafka on the Shore, so I reached for it in my bag. Nothing. It's gone. Shit. It must've fallen out back in the cafe, but it's too late. I can't do anything about it now.
I know it's just a book, and I can get another copy. But it still pisses me off. The only bright side is thinking that maybe Alice picked it up. At least she might like it.
It's getting dark, and my writing is falling apart. It's like I'm trying to force words together when they just don't want to fit. I'm trying to do a puzzle here, but there's no box and no cover to go by. Maybe it would be better if I just stopped for awhile.
I wish I had a watch.
I gathered my things, shouldered my bag, and waved goodbye to Alice, making sure she knew I'd left my money on the table. She waved back and smiled at me. A hundred different thoughts flashed through my head. How much time did I have left? What if I was late? What if there was a cop waiting for me at the station? What if after what if. My mind had drifted, and in that brief moment of lost focus, I caught a glimpse of Alice from the corner of my eye. I saw her. Usually, I can't make out any distinct shapes, but it was definitely her. Her body itself was dark but covered in a thousand small specks of light. The whole sensation only lasted a few seconds--just long enough for me to reach the door, but it was like walking past the clear night sky, unable to look up. It was beautiful. She was beautiful.
I don't know what this is. I don't know what's happening to me. I keep my face buried in books because I'm too afraid to look up. I'm too afraid to see what the world is really made of. Is it a reflection? Do I see the world in metaphors? When I see people as gray blurs or shining stars, am I seeing inside them? Or am I seeing only what I want to see?
I have too many questions and jackshit for answers. Maybe I should have told Dr. Reynolds when I had the chance. Maybe he knows something about this. I might not be the only one. Doctors know all sorts of things about weird reactions, right? There I go again with the questions. It's too late now, though. I can't go back. Sometimes you have no choice but to keep going forward, like being caught in a current.
I'm tired. My back hurts, and my legs are going numb. I feel like a loose thread. I'm starting to realize why all those other passengers shuffled around in a daze like that. Something about this--the bus or the constant traveling or something--wears you out, stretches you to the point where you can't think clearly. You want nothing more than to stop, but you can't. You can't struggle, and you can't look away. You aren't hungry, but you're empty. You have no choice but to accept it. This is the current. This is the river I'm stuck in.
Maybe I am going crazy.
I wanted to read some more while it was still light. I felt like diving back into Kafka on the Shore, so I reached for it in my bag. Nothing. It's gone. Shit. It must've fallen out back in the cafe, but it's too late. I can't do anything about it now.
I know it's just a book, and I can get another copy. But it still pisses me off. The only bright side is thinking that maybe Alice picked it up. At least she might like it.
It's getting dark, and my writing is falling apart. It's like I'm trying to force words together when they just don't want to fit. I'm trying to do a puzzle here, but there's no box and no cover to go by. Maybe it would be better if I just stopped for awhile.
I wish I had a watch.
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