Past the graveyard, voices whisper to me
The awareness comes out of nowhere.
Sitting in a small room. Listening to a band with a huge sound.
In a city. Where I don't want to be.
My face turns white as a sheet. And I look to the southeast.
Sudden and completely focused.
The woman at the next table, whom I vaguely know from somewhere, looks over with alarm.
"Are you okay?"
No. No, I'm not.
And I turn. Literally monitoring the energy. Up the street. Passing the small room. And continuing north.
Then north again.
Slowly, very slowly. The color returns to my face.
The woman touches my arm.
"What was that?"
How do I explain?
"It's like a GPS," I say, then stop.
No one believes this. But I know that it's true. I've felt it, dozens of times.
I've confirmed it, several times.
The energy passes by. Uncontainable. Unstoppable.
"But you're not moving," the woman says. And I not.
I'm not moving. I'm right here. "She's moving," I whisper. I point. "She was there. And then she passed by here and went there. And there."
I stop pointing. It all seems absurd.
But when it first happened, I confirmed it.
The energy was hers.
And it pops up from time to time. When I'm close enough. When I'm in tune.
I don't explain this. I don't tell anyone.
It seems impossible.
"What do you call this?" the woman says again.
I think "GPS of Doom." But I say nothing. I don't want to explain it. I don't have the words.
TVD’s The Idelic Hour with Jon Sidel
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