Motion Sickness

Motion Sickness

There's no sudden impact.

There's no audible scream; no tangible wound.

It begins with an imperceptible shift.

You wake up one morning and discover gravity

Is not grounding you as solidly as it usually does.

Your body - forever yours - is suddenly not.

Heavier and lighter in all the wrong places.

You can still hear sentences; they just silently slide sideways.

There's no landing in your chest; that remains hollow.

Your ears pick up the sound, 

But the brain is semi-ignorant of the meaning behind them,

And there is no bliss behind this feeling.

Conversations hum around you

Like the restless wind against a broken window.

You can't even call it a disconnection.

The plug was roughly shoved into its socket,

The problem is that there's no power to fuel its function.

Nothing truly seems to be broken.

Everything is just artificial.

You walk and feel the weight of every step

And the vibration of your feet against the ground,

But there's no purpose, no final destination in sight or mind.

Along the way, you speak

With your voice, with words your brain has formulated into

Carefully structured phrases,

But why do they still feel like they're flowing from another's mouth?

You feel silence, but no peace.

A hush after words that had been unspoken for so long

Erupted out of your heart,

But never from your mouth.

Only your ears have ever heard that mute scream.

It's only reflected in the static in your eyes,

Staring aimlessly with a patient ache,

As though that's how they belong.

The minor key of your soul

Plays a repetitive melody

That you're tired of being forced to listen to,

As though the keys aren't manipulated by your fingers

And no one else's.

Still, you can't do anything

Except hum it, over and over again,

And stretch it out for what seems like an eternity.

No one else can see this feeling.

No one else can hear your tears.

This pointless sorrow, without anchor,

Is adept at dressing itself in invisible silence.

It wears your clothes, keeps your posture, tells your jokes,

And no one can hear the difference

Unless they feel the need to search for the places

Where you've started to disappear.

If you're waiting for a moment of revelation,

Or a striking tone of resolution,

You'll only be met with disappointment.

Maybe not all that's unseen is meant to be uncovered.

Maybe, learning how to stay still

Without turning away, searching for meaning

Or for anything to make it all make sense

Is the closest thing to clarity you'll find.

It's not what you need.

You can't even call it "good".

But maybe it's enough.

You will not be saved, but you will be witnessed;

By your own attention, if nothing else.

Will it comfort you? No, but it will ground you

In the knowledge that you are present,

Floating, just not weightlessly.

Existing, in your own contradictory sense.