(Miscarried)

"How do you feel?" she asked.

"I feel awful," I said. I felt awful.

"What does feeling awful feel like?"

"Numb. Nauseous. Blank. Like I've been kicked in the stomach. Empty."

"What's interesting to me," she said thoughtfully, "is that those are all neutral sorts of things. But you think they're awful."

I am cut loose, a frantic broken guitar string toy for a very determined cat, and I also feel as though something has been amputated. Gauged out. Like maybe eyes. Or a voice. Silenced. This is not intentionally melodramatic. There are no defined actors in this drama, no white or black hats, there's just the void. The empty stage and the howling maelstrom overhead or perhaps waiting outside the door of the theater. I realize that I was never alone. I also realize that I stole nothing. That the language of allusion not only belongs to everyone but that it also belongs to me. And that, in fact, my language, or, I suppose, my ability to conjure a certain sort of idiom, is something that cannot be taken from me or claimed as someone else's property. This is not a declaration. Merely an observation.

You're so vain, though, that you'd probably think this blog is about you.