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  • The plate of my favorite pasta remained untouched. The pair of fork and spoon and a glass of water stayed still where they were first put. My stomach rejected hunger, embraced the feeling of having had enough.

    Eyes fixed to the homemade dish, brain detecting not a hint of craving, not a trace of desire towards what has been prepared on the table.

    The heart was beating not for what the eyes see, but for what the mind does not.

    The heart beats harder. Faster. As though cups of espresso have been emptied for the sake of waking, when truthfully not a sip was ever taken. For whatever is causing this heart to beat was enough to keep the eye wide open.

    Hands cold and sweating, legs weak, so weak, but not weak enough to stop shifting out of control. It did just that.

    Breathing was short, just long enough to continue living.

    Plenty goes through one's mind in a time like this. Mostly in the form of questions.

    It was disbelief, in all possible contexts of the word. It was a rush of passion towards what was. Such. Sublime. Passion.

    It was a desire not to stop, to walk on. At the same time, it was a calling so impossible to ignore, one demanding rest for this pair of legs.

    It was disappointment projected both outward and inward; towards the self and towards a loved-one-turned-stranger.

    It was a meeting of the good and the bad, the upside and the downside of things. Pros and cons. All things contradictory to one another.

    I watched in silence, this mess. Not speaking. Just breathing heavy and thinking. It helps.

    It was a time of deep sadness.
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