It's an odd sensation. As are all sensations, in their own quiet ways. More than a tinge, not quite a tickle. The perilous between-stage that always seems to claim the most indecisive victims.

I'm one of those. And I fear that I always will be, as I tuck my head between my knees. You know, heartbreak isn't literal. I've read it more than once, but it never seems to sink in. Heartbreak is actually headbreak--all of everything originates from our minds.

And what does that say about us? About me? That I let it hurt me, that I define that hurt with something that doesn't even exist.

So is the hurt still legitimate?

I don't know. I don't know anything about myself anymore. That's what happens, when you don't use your mind. When you don't think, don't feel. Just let the pieces fall where they may.

It's a dangerous thing, this. I'm verging on empty. And to make it more dangerous still, I don't care about the hollow places.

My heart still beats. My mind still tells me to breathe.

But I'm saying to myself, Ouch.

And it's not literal. I have no scrapes. Or wounds. Nothing mars my skin except that scar I got when I was a child--when I fell in the gravel.

My mind told me it hurt, then. But my mind also told me when the hurt went away.

And this time? What if I don't care enough to tell it to leave?

Go--it's all I ever have to say. Go, and don't come back.

Ha. But it's a funny thing, having that power.

That much power, and you're usually scared to use it.

That's where I am, right now.

Where I am when I finally fall asleep.

Past my bedtime, a night-owl insomniac.

As my mind relaxes; for a moment.

When my heart keeps beating.