an alternative to ennui
I take off my rings to type this story. I prefer typing to writing by hand. My ideas flow through my fingertips pumping away at lettered buttons. All this much faster than a clenched hand cramping from the hard impression of led on paper. My left index finger shakes. I don’t know why. The chances I’ll ever show this to anyone is slim, but it shakes anyway.
When I was fifteen, I went bungee jumping and when they hauled me back over the bridge’s railing, I placed my hands under their noses – palms down – and showed them my bravery. I willed my hands not to move; it was fun, but not scary. I was good. Then again, my left index finger shook. It was probably the adrenaline. Maybe that’s what it is now.
I feel a numbness in my chest. A kind of premature nostalgia. A longing for something that is yet to come. It’s all very romantic and makes my eyes sting and my throat tighten. These plastic trees make it hard for me to swallow.
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