It wasn’t summer and it wasn’t winter. The sun wasn’t shining and the clouds were not high above in the sky. He didn’t wake up that morning, his eyes didn’t open to the sun shining in through half-open blinds on the window and he didn’t contemplate the shadows on his bedroom wall from the trees that didn’t dance in the breeze.

Later, as he wasn’t walking towards the train station, he didn’t notice it wasn’t that time of the year when the weather changed, as if the weather wasn’t always changing and the world wasn’t also changing as a result of everything else. The streets were not busy and they weren’t empty. Not moving along, he didn’t look down ahead of him as he didn’t go. People didn’t pass by and he didn’t hear sounds of traffic intertwined with voices and other noises that compose the din of cities. He didn’t even notice that his friend hadn’t messaged about not visiting again.

He didn’t feel any loneliness or nostalgia as he didn’t sit on a bench watching light slowly creep across a square of grass in the park. He couldn’t hear the birds and they weren’t in the sky above nor were they in the trees lining the edge of the park. He didn’t think about how distinct the flowers looked during this time of the year, or how he wasn’t here with her looking at the flowers at this time of the year.

He wasn’t thinking of anything as he didn’t head back home. He didn’t have anything to do and he didn’t see the world around him anymore. He wasn’t awake, he wasn’t asleep, he wasn’t hot and he wasn’t cold. He wasn’t hungry, he wasn’t thirsty, he wasn’t thinking and he wasn’t feeling anything anymore.

…

Alex Wealands is a writer currently living in London. Work has previously appeared in Zeno Press, Review31, The Stockholm Review of Literature, and Visual Verse amongst others. More work can be found at http://cargocollective.com/alexwealands