Is there someone there?
I’m almost sure I can feel you there. The scent of roses comes and goes. It reminds me of something long ago.
The hairs of my neck are bristling. I can feel you. Who are you? Talk to me. Please.
the computer hums softly, the blood in my ears sings
nothing again but the rising of tiny hairs over my whole body. I tingle.
Communicate with me somehow. I jump when the auto-correct turns lower case letters to capitals. Silly cow.
It’s easy to scare myself, imagine things. I make a …well, not a living, but some money from imagining things, so it’s what I naturally do. I take an idea and I let it grow like a weed until I see the form it wants to take and then I tend it so it grows the way it wants to. I write sometimes like someone who is merely taking down dictation; my best work has always come that way. That sort of writing gives me butterflies and more as I write. I get drawn in and lost in the maze I create, a word-maze, a labyrinth that takes me to a centre somewhere deep inside me and I find….what do I find there?
I can’t remember.
Who are you? You’ve been here before, months back, touching my hand, my cheek, that little brush like a passing cobweb. Who? Talk to me, let me know you are real and not something from my imagination. Send me a sign. Something I can’t talk myself out of. More than a failing starter switch on a kitchen light. Please.
I can’t feel or sense anything now and that scent of old roses with a dash of something else is gone too. I write that and a shiver starts along my spine. A breath of something.
What is this, what is going on? Is there something, someone there?