Hand, head

Before enlightenment, cut wood, carry water.

After enlightenment, cut wood, carry water.

—Attributed to Jianzhi Sengcan

It is August. I lie on my bed and turn my head against the pillow and you are there, no one is there, except your voice echoing: probably never. A memory of a hand I magicked up in the dark. 

Tomorrow will be a long day, full of work, probably full of me getting yelled at, put down, spoken contemptuously to. Full of expectation of years without touch, years of work, years of me getting yelled at, put down, spoken contemptuously to. Nothing is ever all right any more.

It is June. I lie on my bed and turn my head against the pillow and you are here, no one is here, except your voice echoing: feel me here. A hand I conjure in the dark.

Tomorrow will be a long day, full of work, probably full of me getting yelled at, put down, spoken contemptuously to. Full of expectation of years without touch, years of work, years of me getting yelled at, put down, spoken contemptuously to. It's all right. You are here.

Same bed, same pillow, same head, same next day, and next, and next, and next.

What has changed?

Everything.

Nothing.

Nothing but my thoughts surging backward, into the empty space, asking: Is anyone left? Is anyone here at all?