Wednesday, March 11, 2015

Unseen

When Dostoevsky wrote that hell is the place where a person is unable to love, he failed to consider what it is like for other people who are stuck in the same place as the said person, the not so innocent bystander. The two days that followed the first night were excruciating.

I watched it happen in slow motion. The window closed, screens came on. I was tuned out like a white noise. Each breathe more suffocating. Every second an eternally. What it is like to be buried alive in silence, drowning in your own screams. I watched myself disappear.

For two days I tossed and turned in my glass coffin. My tears, unseen. My pleas, unheard. It's as if I never existed. I had no idea one could be so invisible.

On the train ride back to Moscow I asked if he saw a shooting star while hiking in the Himalayas. He said, "there are no shooting stars. Only space garbage."

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