Two-hundred.
One-hundred and eighty.
Sixty-five.
Fifty-two.
Hour, after hour, after hour.
Over and over again, the days go by and I think of nothing but numbers.
One day, two, three.
A week.
Eighty-three, eighty-two, eighty-one, eighty.
It's seventy-nine now, and forty-nine still to go.
I count, and I count, and it's never enough.
And it's a bitter taste, and a stomach-ache, and it feels like it never goes away.
It's the hours I lay awake at night, trying not to move. It's the longing for that sharp edge, and the cold floor, and falling back into the blackness.
It's the laughter and the talk around me, it's the big families meeting to celebrate, and I sit there and I count.
Here, one-hundred and fifty.
There, three-hundred.
That one, near the woman; two-hundred and seventy-five.
I never knew numbers could be so terrifying.
I never really understood the satisfying feeling of emptiness, of ache; or that fullness, and the betrayal and fear it rouses within me.
And they run.
They run everywhere, always in a hurry.
They go by; days go by; wishes, longings, memories.
And I can see life, so colorful, and noisy, and full of tears, and laughter and hugs, and punches; and falling apart only to rise again, and smile.
Smile despite everything, smile because of everything.
I can see it.
It's paralyzing.
I am paralyzed.
And life smiles, and I sit here and I look at that smile.
I look at the hidden pain in those eyes, at a clenched fist, or an aching laughter, and the tightness of an embrace.
I can see all of that.
I can hear, and feel, and touch all of that, and it paralyzes me.
I see it all around me, beautiful, endless, incredible life.
And in the meantime, I lay here, paralyzed, and I count.
One, two, three, four.
It's not enough, I need more.
I need less.
And it's slow, and it hurts, but it's there.
I know that.
I know it's there when I gather up the strength to stand up and step forward, on top of it, and I look down and I ache, and I cry, and I scream, but no tears fall, and I don't make a sound.
I close my eyes, sit back down.
There it is again.
It's the most stunning music, muffled so I know it's there, but I can't hear it.
It's the most gorgeous sight there is, blurry, so I know it is but can't appreciate it.
It's the half-smiles.
It's the kind words and the offered hand.
It's everything.
It paralyzes me.
And I sit here, and I count.
Eighty-three.
It aches.
Eighty-two.
It's desperate
Eighty-one.
It's tired.
Eighty.
It's betrayal.
Seventy-nine.
It's not enough.
And forty-nine still to go.
