It's in the sun, as it bites through the clouds and spills onto the grass, that I feel the strangest. The sun lights up other people's skin, pink and dark and fleshy. Fragile human bodies. The sun illuminates us, tells us that we all have a skeleton, a heart pushing blood through our limbs. I look at all the separate bodies, walking, breathing and navigating the Earth with their feet on the ground and instantly my own breathing seems so real.
Or, I'll feel strange when I peer through a train window. I'll feel uneasy, seeing so many houses pass by me, never knowing who's in them, them not knowing me; it's unsettling, to live as an ant in a nest, so tiny. I live in a row of houses just like them; I'm a miniscule figure out of the window of a train, my house a box, a toy house full of ants, faceless and nameless. I'm a figure through a window too, a half second blur, someone else's insignificance. I vanish just the same. I'm an instant and a stranger, never seen again or never seen at all. Like a ghost.
I thought these things alone, on the train; but, when I'm with you I feel as I do in the sun. It's like I'm in the sunlight, as though my skeleton and my blood vessels are on display. Lamp-lit. You've always been like that, lighting up my insides. You're full of fire.
© Josephine Dowswell, 2016