Gray Waiting

But what about me? I'm not too far gone, am I? No, I can't be. I'm still here, still kicking. Not quite alive, not quite dead, stuck somewhere in this empty expanse of gray, this twilight limbo. There must be a reason for this, I'm waiting in a waiting room for an unknown future.

I don't exist anymore, not like I used to. I once had skin with freckles, rosy skin, skin that burned easily in the sun. Now I'm translucent, now I'm dull and vague. There's no sun here anyway, no light dares to offend the endless gray. Nothing dares to offend the endless gray.

It's so barren, this landscape, so terribly desolate. I can't quite describe it, but it feels like a terrible dream, one where the horror sets in slowly, seeping, washing. Nothing lives here, not even I—whatever state of being I currently occupy, I doubt it's full life. I don't have a heartbeat. I haven't for a while now, though I lost track of when the beating stopped.

What about me? I had a life planned out for myself, a life full of adventure and excitement. I had a life worth living. I was going to be someone, I was going to mean something, I was going to achieve some wonderful achievement, create some wonderful creation. I had it all down, trust me, I've always been a planner. Only, I didn't plan on this. I doubt anyone does.

If I concentrate, I can remember glimpses of what happened, of how I got here. I think I was in an accident of some sort, perhaps aquatic. I vaguely recall the sensation of falling, freefalling, then hitting something cold, and sinking, sinking, sinking slowly. If I had to guess, I'd say I was with my husband and our friends on the ocean, on a boat. It must've been some special occasion, I must've been somewhat far from sober. I'm a good swimmer, I've always been. Not good enough to evade the gray waiting room, though.

What about me, who am I, where am I? I did have a husband, right? Or was that just part of my plan? Time doesn't make sense here, not like it used to. The temporal flow is more of a temporal whirlpool, and I find myself wandering backwards and forwards in a confused stagger.

It's frustrating, enraging. I was someone back on Earth. I had a life, I had a family. Why am I here, waiting? If I'm dead, why not quit the suspense and let me know? If I'm alive, why not wake me up? But no, I'm here, I'm here all alone, I'm here all by myself.

There's no variation in shades of gray, it's all the same, all a dull, unremarkable hue. It's so boring, so plain, and yet I can't think of anything better to do. I had a plan once. I had a long to-do list and I was always doing, doing, doing. I never stopped, because stopping meant sitting alone with my thoughts, stopping meant I was useless.

Not anymore. Now I'm pulled up in my car to a red light that never turns green, and I'm sitting, waiting, not daring to go. I've stopped, and I can't remember how to start again. All I know is this simple, barren state of existence. Is this existence? I can't tell, I can't say.

What about me?

What about me?

What about me?

What about me?

I don't remember where the inflection goes—is that the word? Inflection, or emphasis, I could never remember, I can never remember. I didn't major in linguistics. I don't recall what I studied in college, but I think it was a science. Or maybe art? Doesn't matter, all the same, all the same. I don't remember, and it's so frustrating, it's so frustrating.

I'm losing my identity. If I'm being honest, I've already lost it, but the very last shreds are finally unraveling, leaving a skeleton, a husk. This gray expanse is malicious, carnivorous, it's torn the meat from my mind, ripped the me from myself.

The gray doesn't end, and I don't think it ever will. I am here, and here is where I shall stay. It's lonely, lonely, lonely.

I think of a mother and her child, of lovers embracing, of friends laughing, and I'm jealous of these mental representations of old, long-forgotten memories. They're happy, they're at peace, but what about me?