My grain of sand...

As if I feared that the scope of what I could feel and imagine was being quietly limited by the world within a world. The things outside were becoming further from me, and everything inside it seemed piercingly relevant. It was just happening, like time, like geography. It seemed so inherently endless that it didn't occur to me what wasn't there. My appetite was so gigantic that if something was shrinking, something immeasurable, how would I notice? Most of life happens elsewhere, though, and I think it always will; eating and aching and sleeping and loving ... yet it's not impossible to imagine loosing my appetite for those things; they aren't always easy, and they take so much time.