When I read or write, I am there and elsewhere.
I am there, sitting or lying, reading or writing.
There in my body, I am.
But I am also elsewhere, and sometimes I don’t recognize myself at all.
I don’t see my hands as part of me. They are ghosts, making words.
The words themselves are more real than the sounds or black shapes that make them.
The flow of energy that words create is the only real force.
The flashes of feelings and images half-formed in my head as I read are more real than the texture of the pages or the tapping of my finger against the screen.
It’s a strange sensation, to be here and elsewhere. To be not entirely in myself.