By Sadie York
The brief moments of sliding in and out of consciousness, when time pauses, and the room dims are the moments which do not register as material. There’s a specific state of surrealism in which you exist between the lines of life. Almost as if you’ve found a way to take a step back from reality, and observe yourself from the third person, before fully regaining consciousness again. While your mind is not closed, you’ve yet to become aware, and so you’re placed in a waiting room of thought.
It is quiet in the waiting room.
A few streaks of light have squeezed their way through the blinds, and in a bitterly cold moment, sunlit warmth seeps through. We revel in the idea of comfort–the idea of not being alone. Yet, when stirring between the lines, there is nothing else to be.
It is uncomfortable in the waiting room.
The silence is deafening, and as I attempt to collect my state of mind, a pit grows in my stomach. A tree sprouts and spreads its branches until faint scratches line the inside of my gut. The roots twist into a knot of unease, and suddenly, I feel the weight of mortality. My eyes begin to grow heavy, and the blankets beside me morph into a cocoon. The drift back into sleep passes rapidly–the unconscious realm welcomes me back with a smile. This time, the eyes didn’t let me open, and what was the present has not been registered as a memory. The space in between the lines do not tell a story, they simply exist to separate what occurs in the conscious mind.