It is so real. This constant awareness of my gut and all my innards bumping around, spinning, whirling, cartwheeling…dropping fast.
It was flying. A dream of romance. A dream close enough to touch, close enough to believe. Close enough to breathe. I breathed it in like a drug, clouding my senses, and shrouding my rational mind in rich silky red drapes that sighed with satisfaction to be out of the dusty cardboard box in the basement. They swirled and danced on the breeze, blocking the view out the window; separating me from all connection to reality.
Reality. The stiff wind that flattened the curtains against the wall; that huffed and puffed and blew me to the ground. And now, it is so real… this physical connection with the floor. I run my hand through the grit and dust of its cracks and crevices, and it leaves a mark on my finger. I stare. It is so real, so visible, so tangible. Like a pile of dog shit on the side of the road, or that sadness when a good song ends, leaving your ears noticeably empty.