"Where'd she go?"; fade to black. The end of "The Body". I sorta plop my computer on my stomach and simply be. And I hear things. It's silence, but I hear things in it. The hiss of air, probably a combination of the air vent and my refrigerator. My next-door neighbor coughs as he walks down the hall. Or maybe he sneezes. I don't remember. I don't hear him walking, though, just him shutting his door. His rock music isn't playing, which is as significant as what I hear. My other neighbor is talking with a friend. They only chat a bit—a couple sentences, maybe—and then it is silent again.
My light is bright. It's always been bright, but this time I notice it instead of hiding from it. It isn't blinding when you're not trying to watch a movie on your computer. It's still bright, though. My alarm clock is right next to me, but I can't turn my head to look at it and see what the time is. There's a Cowboys game sometime tonight. Or maybe I just don't want to exert the effort. My computer is too heavy to lift so I can see the time. I lift my head so I can see it instead. Or maybe I turn it to look at the alarm clock after all. I don't remember which. It's not that important anyway.
The time is a little before six. The Cowboys game isn't for about forty minutes. Actually, it's not for thirty-six. This detail is important. I don't know why. Maybe because that's when I've committed to getting out of bed. Maybe it's just something to do. Maybe it's not important. Maybe I'll just skip the first few minutes and go when I feel like it.
I should write this down. I don't know why. Why I am I just lying in bed, contemplating … something? I am compelled to write it down. I still don't quite know why. I simply must. Do I find a notebook, or do I type it out? If I write it out longhand, my pencil will scratch and disturb the powerful silence. My computer is still heavy, and the keys will click, and my arms are heavy, far heavier than they should be. Should I write it down after all? I'm tired. I'm not sleepy, just tired. But not sleepy. I'm more awake now than I've been in most of my life. Or am I? I'm noticing things I've never noticed before. That's awake, right?
My trance is almost ended; it's now or never. I lift my arms. I feel the muscles straining. Only my arms are exerting, but I'm suddenly aware of every inch of my body. Why? I pick up my computer, still heavy, and sit up. Now I wonder how long I laid there, feeling nothing, only existing. It was me and the universe for a moment. I wonder why I didn't notice how hot my blanket is, or how dry my face is with tears, or how my nose is half stopped up. I'm hearing some kind of whir-click in the air vent. I think my refrigerator wasn't involved in the hiss. What is the meaning of all this? I'm still not sure. Perhaps it is the negative space surrounding me, and that by observing it, I understand myself a bit better. What am I learning? Why is it important?
I'm not sure. I write.
