The Existence Of Amy

by Lana Grace Riva

I feel a wave of something similar to what I imagine someone might feel when a car is hurtling towards them, and they're not quite sure they have enough time to get out of its path. This sounds ridiculous doesn't it. I must be exaggerating surely. Unfortunately, I'm not exaggerating. Not even in the slightest.

Recovery time never arrives though, it simply doesn't seem to exist. It's always straight into the next. That's how it operates. Any notion of resting and relief will not be entertained or tolerated.

My problem is that I welcome a bit of isolation. I actively seek it out. Regularly. I prefer if at times people do not notice me.

There is no comfort in my world. I can only hope at best for some small distant resemblance of it.

I am stuck in this moment watching. I am stuck in most moments watching. I stay like this for a while. Tormenting myself with images of other lives. It feels cruel but I can't seem to stop.

All my feelings seem to have got fed up and have fled my body. Perhaps they felt over-exerted and couldn't cope. They've left to find a more stable carrier, it's clearly way too stressful in this one.

One lone thought is on a loop in my head. 'Am I ever going to be able to properly function as a human being?'