All around, a silent hum, and space. Space.
It is the lack of things, and the lack of people that crowds me.
It is the lack of trust and the heaviness of histories, mine and not mine, and age. Age and broken ten-year-old dreams. To be a child is to have hope; to be an adult is to realize that your hopes have come and gone and already you are doing little more than making due.
For the first time in my life, I feel as though I want to have a child.
I don’t know what that means. I don’t know what anything means as I look around me at all of this space, and sense—rather than hear, necessarily—the silent hum.