Different kinds of reactions

E invites me to a party. As I walk to her house, a man asks me for money. I tell him I am Mexican. He lets me go. Seconds later, he returns and demands all of my money. Minutes later, I talk to a policewoman. I apologize several times because I am unable to properly construe the events.

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S is going through a hard time. She barely speaks. I do not know what can I say to confort her because I lost my words. I keep silent for two days.

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I drank too much and I am about to vomit. In front of the toilet, I realize how far from home I am. But the place I live in is no longer home. There is no place I can designate with that word.

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I run into U while grocery shopping. He asks me what I have been up to. I tell him I read a book on Freud. I tell him about my experience with psychoanalysis. I stumble with my own words. I am not sure if I actually finished the treatment, but I do not know if there is such a thing as a cure through words. Words.

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English is not my native language. I never talk in English unless it is absolutely necessary. When I hold casual conversations, I have a very noticeable accent and forget ordinary words. However, whenever I talk about academic topics, most of my accent goes away and I can fluently handle complex terms.

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A swimmer takes the lane next to mine. She is incredibly fast; most likely a professional. We recognize each other because we swim at the same regular hours. Whenever we rest on the same side of the pool, we look at each other. I think sometimes I smile at her, but I cannot tell if she smiles back because I am nearsighted.

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I dream about A, my dead relative. She appears every few years in my dreams. She always leaves abruptly. She says she has to go. I respond by telling her how much I miss her. I feel a deep sadness every time. I would have never told her something like that when she was alive. But this time is different. She makes very clear where she is: "I still have some years to go." "It is weird. I miss you, but I would never say something like this while you were still alive", I respond. "You said enough. At least to me."

I feel the same sadness. I cry, even though I did not cry at her wake. She tells me that her visit can invigorate her enough to "kick the shit out of Aeneas". She disappears. On the next morning, I read about a kind of purgatory in the sixth book of the Aeneid. I realize what she meant.

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After graduating, I lost the ability to write. Nothing came to mind. I lost my words in another sense: I could write long essays on academic topics, but I could no longer write poetry. After a few weeks in another country, I wrote a poem. I can write again, but not in my native language. My words have shifted.