On days when I feel disconnected from my body, I don’t look too closely at shiny surfaces. They startle.
There’s a buzzing in the air, like a pulsating laptop in an empty office, or the TV turned on to babysit. Stare at the blue screen long enough, you feel tingly, you start crackling like a defective hologram in some ‘80s movie.
On days like this, wielding a fork and spoon is sleight-of-hand.
And when I piss, I tend to hum, or sing, for feedback. Hum like you would when you’re walking down a shady alley at night, keys surreptitiously fisted with the sharp ends sticking out. Sing like you would in a pitch-black space, to get a sense of its size, to gauge your own insignificance.
I feel like water, a drop falling on palm, absorbed, gone. Two drops merging, sliding into each other, slipping down the drain, gone.
On days like this, holding someone else’s hand is the only way I’m brought back to myself whole, the only time I get a sense of gravity. But, even so, I can easily pull away.