Another Word Of Feeling Novels & Stories

I looked at the roses. I thought about the word I had for what I was feeling, and I did not have it. I had the specific and approximate shape of a feeling that I could describe in pieces, in the partial and insufficient way of describing a thing that was too large for any single accurate word, a thing that was grief and something adjacent to grief and something that was not grief at all but was its own category, the specific and particular sensation of a woman standing in front of the roses from her dead mother's garden on a terrace in November. The sensation of being known.

Unspoken waves surged in Celine's heart, rushing down like a waterfall from a great height. She read that line with a quivering chest, filled with a mix of emotions—joy, gratitude, and even a hint of happiness. Was this what they called love? Even without a meeting, a simple line from him could shake her heart. Even without his voice, a string of characters could sway her feelings. Truly, the power of that one feeling, called love, was magnificent.

To think one word can leave someone this frozen and numb. To think that one word is capable of making a person forget how to breathe. I remain in my spot, not even able to hang up. Why do I feel this way? I am not excited, I am not moved, I don’t feel any warmth, the butterflies in my stomach are probably dead or hibernating. I don’t feel frustrated, I don’t feel angry. I feel, numb… Why would a simple word such as baby make me feel this way? As if the air had been pulled out of my lungs, as if I no longer have the ability to move or think.

These words are older than that elder's words. Much older. They have weight. I can feel the weight of them, which is strange and new. I've always felt things that aren't exactly feelings. The thing under my skin responds to emotion the way the surface of water responds to wind. But this is different. These words have an old gravity to them, a pull, like they're connected to something that existed long before this clearing and will exist long after it. And they're about me.

I am feeling a certain someone. Close.

Not surprising. What I had not expected was the specific quality of the feeling that arrived alongside the shape. Not anger. I examined what I was feeling with the same accuracy I brought to external assessment and the word was not anger. Anger had a quality of heat, of immediate reaction, of the feeling preceding the thought. This was cooler than anger. More considered. The feeling of a person who had received a full account and was understanding, from the full account, the precise nature of what had been withheld and what the withholding had cost.

“Fuck you’re perfect for each other. Both fucking stupid. Of course you’re second mates. Don’t you feel those sparks?” Touching April had felt different. It was like this weird feeling, similar to when you hit your elbow. But instead of painful, it felt nice. Like electricity running through my arms. My hairs standing up from the fucking cold, but I didn’t feel cold, but warm inside. Fuck, hell if I knew how to describe it. “Sparks. Just say fucking sparks.” Fox said annoyed.

But right now, I want to burn. That fire ignites my body like gasoline. I swear my dick is going to explode. “I want you to make love to me again,” her sensual voice sings through my mind. I wince and swallow, but this time I can’t fully suppress the gag. Again? Like last night? I guess, if you look at it, it’s just a matter of semantics ― it’s just a better word for fucking. A girly word. Except this feels different.

‎ ‎It becomes the reason to feel. ‎ ‎Always. ‎ ‎And ever. ‎ ‎And on. ‎ ‎The end. ‎ ‎The feeling. ‎ ‎The light. ‎ ‎Forever.

“We are going to write our feelings out in these. One word, feelings, about what we just heard from John. Then we will pick back up with questions.” I take the little pad and stare at its blank page. So many words fly to my mind as I think about which to write first. The moment my pen touches the paper to write one word, it dissipates as another takes its place and I’m stuck staring at the paper again. I take a peek up and mom is writing word afterword. I find dad sitting and staring at him just like I am. I should feel anger, I should feel hatred, and violently upset. But what I feel is lighter.