Salto Angel

          I am dead in a world blooming with life. My skeleton is amongst a meadow of newborn buds. I am suspended in a realm separate from reality yet still within it. Time slips from my fingertips and I watch opportunity fade with indifference. I no longer care what happens anymore; I have no motivation to alter any part of my life. Not because I'm content with how it is, but because I'm too tired. My perception is hazy and all the substance of my being has dispersed. Anticipation for Paris, the approach of summer, and all the opportunities that exist everyday are not enough to pull me out of this comatose state. 
          I cut off all my hair in the hopes that I would feel something. Each time I brought the scissors to my head, more hair would gather on my bedroom floor. I stared at my reflection as I did it, hoping that I would detect a flinch of fear or a hesitant sigh. It would have been enough to stop me, for it would have proven that I am not utterly devoid of emotion. The sight of my severed locks evoked nothing in me except a feeling of renewal. I realized it was a moment of liberation, for my hair represented everything I had lost in the past week. Now that it was gone, I could focus on more important things like my poetry and art. This year is supposed to be my Renaissance era. Yet I'm still empty.