I can’t describe how it felt to be unconscious. It’s just an absence, not black, not golden, just a segment of time cut out, the seams re-stitched like what the surgeon did to my eyelids at seventeen.
I believe dreams only take place in the rush of resurfacing. That friction of being pulled through the membrane of consciousness was the only way to remember I had lungs. It was the shock of realising I was tricked. The jolt of missing a step. I hated diving, moving between the two worlds.
Nothing happened between the collapse and the resurfacing. I only recall the sensory boundaries: the ringing sound, surrender
the refocusing of eyes on a patterned wall, trying to remember my identity and location. It’s lost data. I say nothing happened but really something happened and there is no way of knowing. Without evidence, without memory, it just doesn’t exist.
Comments
Post a Comment