A Feather in Still Air

Everything is alright now. 

 

No hunger, no rush, no noise, no fear. 

Not too hot, never too cold. 

 

The air hums quietly, like a machine just before it breaks.

 

They brought us here. 

 

Everything is measurable. Controllable. Stoppable. Startable. 

 

You don’t have to feel sad if you don’t want to. 

Well, you can’t feel sad even if you want to. 

 

You can’t mess up. 

You can’t miss the bus — there is no traffic. 

You can’t burn the dinner — you don’t cook it. 

Your father will never yell — because you don’t have one. 

Your lover won’t break your heart — because hearts don’t break anymore. 

 

I remember feeling anxious. Always.

The noise, the ache, the pulse.

I remember feeling too much.

I always thought that was the problem.

 

I moved to Germany once.

This place reminds me of there.

Clean. Quiet. Efficient.

Empty.

 

I thought I wanted this. I wanted to run away. I wanted peace and quiet and no more tears and worries and no more fluctuations in the heart rate. 

 

I wanted everything to stop and not move anymore. 

Not forward, not backward. 

I wanted time to stop but not my heart. I wanted minimum effort. 

 

Everything is controlled now. 

Temperature: twenty-five. 

Hormones and minds. 

Sleep at nine, wake at five. 

 

I used to have cat hair on every cardigan. 

Now I eat two thousand calories a day. 

Not 2.001. Not 1.999. 

 

I miss the cemeteries.

Silence.

I haven’t seen someone die in eight years.

 

I don’t run. I don’t laugh. 

I don’t cry. I don’t worry. 

I just be.

 

Like the summer of 2009.  

 

*

 

Why do I feel like a feather drifting through the wind, if everything is fixed?

Maybe because there isn’t any wind.