The color of my girlfriend's eyes is coffee spilled on the thin weave of a bleached coffee filter, after the dark liquid has dried. Red-brown. They are also the color of earth in some places of Kentucky--the soil that stains your clothes and skin for committing trespass.
I walked tonight, back and forth along the block in front of my apartment. My thoughts turned in all directions. My heart heavy and light and heavy again.
I told my therapist today that I find it increasingly difficult to interact with people, that I crave isolation.
It is typical, she responded and offered insight and suggestions.
Snow falls.
I have been in a perpetual state of on and off again disassociation for over two decades. For more than twenty years, I have lived in a near constant state of mind and body that feels like
a dropped off sentence.
an emptiness that is always empty (but remembers that it was once filled with something).
a perpetual state of deja-vu or someone else's dream.
Snow falls.
And the simple act of rolling back my chair--an act I do hundreds of times a day--opens a window, and what blows into me is an awareness that I've disassociated from myself. In that awareness, the sentence
drops away.
I feel the dreamer dreaming.
I become as desolate as the spaces between snowflakes falling in the night.
But that window, says my therapist, when you feel that you're gone, is what we'll widen to bring you back.