Stranded in a fog of words, loved him like a winter bird

Riding the elevator down to the ground floor, I am overcome by a simple, yet supreme sadness. As though nothing will ever be good again in the world.

I have been administered a Dementor’s kiss, only I feel hot and clammy, instead of bone-numbing cold.

That horrible sensation of a full-body blush.

Once outside I feel like sitting down on the sidewalk.

Once outside I feel like crying.

Walking to the bus stop, I watch as a group of pedestrians take turns stepping over a sleeping homeless person. His body but another piece of broken and unwanted sidewalk detritus.

He is empty Starbucks containers and dirty sleeping bags (but also daydreams, loves, hopes, and fears.)

He is humanity ground down to a small dirty sign that just reads, “Help.”

I feel like throwing up.

My eyeballs are scratchy.

I’m desperate for tears that, for some reason, won’t come.

I try to phone a friend but she doesn’t pick up.

Waiting for the bus, I feel deeply embarrassed about talking so highly of myself in the office (and also for telling a very uneven Michael Fassbender joke.)

But mostly I just felt awkward and stupid for bragging (boasting?) about myself.

Even though I know it wasn’t.

I was just talking about my life (and my daydreams, loves, hopes, and fears.)

So for the next 40 minutes I stand and just think about why I feel this way.

I think and feel.

About feelings.

Published by

Vanessa Woznow

Writer, runner, ranter, reader. I write about all things.

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