I disappeared.

I threw my phone into the canal, I deleted my facebook, twitter, whatever.

All of it.


I unplugged my house phone. I gave my boss my address and I told him to only show up for emergencies.

Three days went by and I heard from no one. The cops came by on the fourth day. My mom called them.

“Is everything alright?”

I said yes and they asked if they could come inside. I told them fine and they looked around and asked why the sudden drop. I told them I was moving to a monastery and had to act drastic lest my family and friends talked me out of it. One of them was christian. He shook my hand and wished me good luck. I thanked them and asked them to please tell my mother. The christian said he would.

After they left I took a long walk to the park. A goose waddled around with my phone in its mouth. I wished I could take a picture, but as I walked away I realized I didn’t care. An image like that would only make sense to me, like showing baby pictures to your friends. They find something in it, but not the everything that you find.

At work, everyone asked if I was alright. I smiled and said yeah. They remembered they didn’t care and continued on. There was no sign on my face that I was sad because I didn’t feel sad. So, they weren’t asking if I was sad, they were asking because my boss told them of my life change. I told him I unplugged all comm outside of letters. He asked if I still lived in the apartment. I told him my address hadn’t changed and that should be obvious because of that.

He said he found it odd and incongruent.


He explained: it didn’t make sense to do this while still living in the concrete jungle.

I liked that.

I’ve heard it before, but I like that. Concise enough to fit in my head and write it on the wall and the mirror in my bathroom. This is a concrete jungle. But I like it. I don’t see the problem. I don’t see the incongruence. I just don’t want to be bombarded anymore.

I just want to go to sleep and wake up and not have to immediately talk to anyone. I just want to feel that real connection to people who go out of their way to see me. Who come to me and I reciprocate and reach out to them. Not a small text message or a fake 50 minute phone call to ‘catch up.’ No. I want the handwritten letter. I want the friend who drove six hours to see me. I want the embrace uninterrupted by a text notification. I want, I want, I want, I want– I want none of these things. I’m lying to myself.

I sit on the carpet in the living room. I pick through the strands of the carpet, counting each individual one like a monkey sifting through its mate’s fur looking for bugs. But there’s no bugs. Only me counting. I’m here.

We’re here.

She knocks on my door at 3:47 and I don’t answer. She pounds for a few minutes. She screams I know you’re there open up what’s wrong.

She hears me sifting, I think. It’s the loudest noise in the universe.

She goes away and I sit in front of the door and feel the grooves in the withered wood. She comes back. I can hear her sob. A crumbling noise come from her side. A piece of paper pokes its head through the bottom crack.

A note.

I love you.