Word Count: 242
I can’t help it. That song from the sixties runs through my head. Skeeter Davis.
Why does the sun go on shining? Why does the sea rush to shore? Don’t they know, it’s the end of the world…
There’s a hollowness I’ve never felt before. My heart drum-echoes in my chest. The little I eat traces its way down my esophagus. I feel it drop into my stomach. I eat because I must but nothing tastes like anything anymore. Nothing matters.
It’s just another man who’s left me. Just another man. I’ve got millions more to swallow and vomit out. Love is my bulimia.
I do not walk, I shuffle. I do not speak when I can nod or shake my head instead. My lips recline in closed position in a sad sad smile. Enigmatic? Not at all. It’s simply much too hard to let in life.
It’s easier each time to ghost through crowds. There’s less of touching, bumping, feeling. Routine is automatic, I don’t remember getting dressed each day. I don’t recall my day as happening. I couldn’t tell you what I’ve done.
On weekends I live in the dark cold rooms, the sun blocked out because as Skeeter sings, it’s unaware.
Then one day he comes into my world and opens windows, feeds me words, shoves the sun and moon and stars back into place. And a ripe tomato tastes red and sweet again until it doesn’t anymore.
