It smells like damp earth, and that’s because it hasn’t stopped raining for two weeks.
The sky is as gray as my eyes, which sense sadness approaching but, for some reason, it never quite arrives. My mouth is a rictus of expressionlessness that has not heard laughter in a long time, neither my own nor that of others.
My legs feel sluggish from having been inactive for three long months, carrying me from one part of my house to another but unable to help me down the stairs that separate me from life on the street.
My shoulders, I don’t understand why, are tense and I am no longer able to relax them; they stiffen every so often, representing the uncertainty and confusion we have been living with for so long, or the desire to curl up in a fetal position and not be seen by anyone.
I cannot speak about the feelings of my soul. Not because I don’t know how to express them, but because it doesn’t have any. This state of neutrality leaves me feeling neither cold nor warm, neither pain nor pleasure. I feel nothing, and that is as wonderful as it is terrifying.
I see the wet bench and wonder whether to sit down or keep walking. I hear exhaustion screaming at me to sit down, to rest; that we’ve done enough for one day.
There will be more benches in the next park.
I’ll continue.
