Tuesday, May 14, 2013
It was like a tiny black hole had opened up in my solar plexus. Time slowed while the anomaly consumed me from the inside, making my diaphragm and stomach and ribs and liver and heart--especially the heart--become less than nothing. Drenched in cold sweat, I forgot my limbs, forgot my face, forgot my hands and feet. They would disappear into the black hole too, if I remembered where they were to begin with. Only a persistent tremor registered, but I couldn't even tell where that was coming from. I tried to find a way to forget what I had just seen, but it wasn't possible. The images and words were seared onto my retinas like cattle brands. That sadly familiar black hole had turned me inside out again, a comically, chronically empty pocket. I vowed that this would be the last time, like I had so many times in the past. It wasn't an empty threat this time, though. It was a promise.