untitledIt only happened sometimes. I would put on a new shirt and suddenly feel wrong, feel the foreign quality of my own body parallel with the unknown fabric. Walking down the college hallway in the afternoon, shadowed except where golden light spilled across the floor from open doorways, I would see a girl, a stranger, and the sight would stir in my hidden heart; in my loneliness. A magazine would fall open, and I would feel no connection when I saw floral prints and long hair and earrings.Sometimes I felt more like the leaves and sun in the background of photographs rather than a person. Or like the metal and glass walls of a skyscraper, or the chipped clay of brick roads. I felt these things very deeply. I thought they inspired me, but what I didn't understand was why I could not make anything out of them. They arrived as sparrows do, and left before I could catch them.There were some things I could hold onto.