Derealization

 A light breeze runs fingers through my hair; as expected for this time of year, the air is crisp and I wish I wore a jacket. Unhindered by clouds, the sun merely shines brightly, warmth an afterthought. Laughter of children at play hangs in the air. A tantalizing aroma of steak searing on a grill dances through the street. The mailman walks briskly from house to house. 

There is nothing peculiar about today.

But do you ever have those moments where you just stop, look out from where you’re standing, and with a feeling akin to disbelief, wonder if you’re actually standing there… like if you looked down at your feet you’d find yourself in bed, dreaming. There’s nothing so god-damn remarkable about this moment, yet it feels unreal. Doctors call this derealization. They say it happens because you either bumped your head, are substance abusing, tired, or just plain going crazy. I’m none of these. My feet are still there when I look down, but I don’t want them to be. This reality conflicts with cherished memories.

I’m going back inside now. As I kiss you on the forehead, you’re going to ask me how my walk went. The best days of my life were with you. In my head, memories refuse to accept that I’m alone.