slivers

Moving through the world becomes like walking through a glass tunnel. Glass above, glass below, glass all around. There's only me in it, and as I pass along, I can see everything just on the other side. I can put my hands to the glass, and my face, but I can't touch or feel or smell or taste anything out there. Scary things press themselves against it, showing their dark, ugly, twisted bodies to me. They shift and morph, sometimes seeming wet and soluble, sometimes wispy as smoke. And I can't hide from them. I shrink to the floor, bury my face in my knees, and wrap my arms tight around my legs. But they just stare at me, waiting until I lift my head to acknowledge their existence, and their power.

They crowd out the beautiful things, which I know are back there, if temporarily hidden from my sight. But they're shoved so far back I can't even make out their shapes in the chaos.

I don't know what it was. I don't know if it was taking Vicodin for a week straight, then plunging off a cliff back into an icy ocean of pure, unaltered physiology. I don't know if it was the nasty surprise I unearthed early Sunday morning, poking around as I sometimes do in places I know better than to go.

But whatever it was, I dropped down, down, down, a globe of the thinnest, most brittle glass, until I crashed inevitably to the floor. And now I'm in a hundred tiny pieces, exhausted by even the thought of trying to gather back into myself the slivers scattered far and wide across the room.

I owe emails, and I owe phone calls, and I have voicemails I haven't even listened to. I'm sorry if you're among those expecting something from me.

I hope to be back soon.