It happened again today. You know, that tiny fracture in the membrane between there and here. I was standing at the sink, rinsing the mug that still smelled faintly of instant coffee, when I said, out loud, “Huh?” Not because I hadn’t heard anything. Not because someone asked me a question. It was more like a reflex, a leak in the system. The word escaped before the thought could catch up like a small verbal breadcrumb from the world that exists behind my eyes. Mother noticed. She turned her head, a tilt sharp enough to slice. “What was that?” she said. I wanted to answer, “Oh, that was just the sound of the paracosm slipping.” But I didn’t. Instead I just shook my head. Because how do you explain to someone that your internal world, the one built of remembered dreams, pocket universes, and the texture of rain on invented streets, is starting to slide out of your mouth like fog? She thinks it’s distraction. I know it’s migration. The borders between imagination and language are eroding. Each “huh” is a fault line, a small quake announcing that the continents of my mind are drifting closer to the surface of speech. I wonder if one day it’ll all come out, not in words, but as a flood of shimmering nonsense that only I can recognize as home. Until then: Huh?
(entry ends, the cursor blinks like a pulse between worlds)
~ Oizys.
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