The Sanctuary Beyond the Undergrowth

I know I’m alive, I know I exist, though even when I stand in front of my mirror and force myself to look at the scrawny body God had given me, I wonder if it’s really true. My bed is warm from where I once slept [I even placed the palm of my hand on the soft indent in the mattress to affirm this]; the clothes I had worn to my Grandfather’s farm last weekend were washed by Mother and hung off my dresser; the plate of dinner I had just eaten sat on the table where I spent long evenings completely my assigned work, but everything felt surreal.

Things were too right. Everything fit every puzzle piece perfectly. And maybe that was what’s wrong.