Water.
if i feel the water, do they feel it too?
i stare at the mirror. i want to believe that’s me, but it isn’t anymore. it’s “us.” a home we’re all locked into without doors. we just have two windows connecting us to the outside world. sometimes it’s enough. sometimes we want more.
i look at my…
no. our hands.
water from the tap trickles through them. i feel it. do we feel it?
it would be poetic that only one of us did, it would make things simple. but that’s not how it is all the time. we all feel it if we’re all present. when only one of us is here we think only one of us feels it, but it’s just because the others aren’t here to say they do too.
i look back at the reflection. it’s the three of us. me, En, and CJ.
Me: do you feel this? the water through our fingers?
En & CJ: yes, we do.
Me: do you always feel it?
En: we can’t remember. or, i can’t remember.
CJ: no, we can’t remember. i certainly don’t.
Me: i suppose knowing the answer for sure would mean there’s an answer to whether a fallen tree in an empty forest still makes a noise
En: it creates ripples in the air whether we are there to observe those ripples or not. you feel the water when we don’t. you observe the ripples. we don’t notice, or can’t.
CJ: this scares me.
CJ sees herself in a dark room.
CJ: i feel like i might miss something i want to experience. maybe the water is a girl i like, and i want to be there, but you’re there instead.
En: i feel that fear, too.
Me: but we can’t blend, we can’t combine. it hurts. it makes us feel like a tangled, knotted mess of yarn.
we splash our face with the water.
Me: i hate it. i don’t hate either of you, but i don’t want to feel your presence. i want you to be real.
En: we are real.
Me: no. you’re in my head. i want you to be physical. i want you to be water.
the reflection becomes just us again. our body. our river.
are my tears water?
