I am not here. It's the first thing I notice, because there are no shadows or sounds or obvious inclinations that prove my presence.
I am not here. I stand from the couch and find that I am feeling much better than I did when I fell asleep. The pain in my chest and lower back is no longer there and I feel... Okay.
Not good; Not bad. Okay.
I feel like nothing, like my body is not there.
But I look down, and it's frankly obvious that my body is there, because I can see it, and when I run my hands down my crinkled suit jacket I can feel it.
But... I am not here.
I walk into the kitchen, although my footsteps make no noise to prove this, and I find John. He is sitting at the table with a mug (tea) in front of him. He does not look up as I enter and instead stares into the brown liquid, but not looking at it.
I call out his name, he doesn't seem to have heard me.
I step closer, reach out, shake him. He does not budge, does not feel.
I am not here. It echoes in my brain. But of course I'm here! I can see and smell and touch-
Except. Except I take a few steps back, and I'm not. The mirror projects a reflection of the lounge, nothing more. I am positive that I am directly in front of it, yet seem to be out of its line of vision.
I am not here.
It is a rather startling truth.
