“You may think I'm small, but
I have a universe inside my mind.”
-- Yoko Ono
Evidence & Experience
Evidence and Experience is a creative writing lab
by conceptual artist & writer, Yvonne Claire. A live writing experiment in which authorship is treated as unfolding process rather than fixed production.The narrative is written and published in real time,
without editorial correction.Upon completion, the sequence is compiled, edited, and released as a single published work.Evidence & Experience posts weekly on Tuesdays.Content Notice:
Some readers may find themes distressing.
5/10 Series: The Crime(s)
That Never Happened, pt. 6:The Journey
Chapter One: the door
a fictional TruthJuly 23A friend of mine used to shrug her shoulders, smile, and say: Sometimes, you gotta go!This is the best way to explain how the journey started. Or this particular leg of the journey. After all the events of the past year and a half. All the unpredictable, misplaced, and fast moving energy. Mid 2025, seemingly, no better than 2024.The cold, hard pressing sensation of my entire being up against the surface of the fabricated lake I had found myself in.— life and death — the outside emotions of others and lives colliding into and out of my reality. The incessant ping of intuition,
telling me it was time to go:Just head to the door.
#July 27When the last straw fell, it landed like an explosion. Thrown with the force of a grenade. Enough to propel me through the surface, fractals of life bursting, and crashing into motion—Just head to the door.
#A brilliant unplanned idea. A rush— how ridiculous and unbelievable it all was. All the events that unfolded. Anything was possible at this point.So, I let my mind indulge in the abstract. In the far fetched. I let it rest in the field of unknown.
Chasing tingling sensations. Sure why not.
#July 28Just head to the door.when the final straw exploded.
I packed and loaded bags.
Essentials and the cat.No good bye
No well wishes
No explanations.
Too many reasons why, I had to
I left and closed the door.Stay tuned…Note: Previous parts to story currently unavailable. Small selection available to subscribers on SubStack.Upon completion, the sequence is compiled, edited, and released as a single published work.
5/10 Series: The Crime(s)
That Never Happened, pt. 6:
Forward to The Journey
a Fictional Truth
July 20These days, Ive been sleeping abnormally heavy. Sleep still comes to me in broken chunks, little bits, or not at all. From time to time, I worry about the phantoms of the night and the uncertainty of unconsciousness lingers. Sometimes, I sleep under the light of the TV for comfort. There’s still somatic pains, migraines, and my watery alligator eyes, Body Keeps Score.The gentle hum of nerves across my forehead, a still a pleasant reminder and compass. A guide for navigating life.I skipped to part five, because the rest of 2024 was to sad and painful; The death of my father and all the colliding energies that came with it- because grief has seven stages. I spent the first half of 2025, cleaning up after a life left behind.Now, the crime(s) that never happened and all that went with it, all that I had been through, the sensory issues what did it all matter?I was tasked with packing up my father’s house. He was a photographer, suitcases of slides and film. Stock piles of faded art supply. Shelves of unused, uncared for film cameras and broken lenses. Unfinished clay figures. Dusty manuals. Antiquated tools of an old craftsman.He didn't have much art to show for his 80 plus years on this planet. Consumed by family duties, abandoned dreams, and talent wasted. Forgotten and stagnate. This made me panic.I did not want to suffer the same fate. I had been trapped by circumstance and had shrunk myself to fit in spaces, for the sake of others, and out of self preservation. My creative talents set aside for too long.This story is also about the unspoken. The hidden. The forgotten things. The talents left unused. The life left to waste— These are crimes. Because there’s joy in the little things.There’s also the quiet crime of self-betrayal. The slow erosion that comes from living anything less than authentically. We often think of crimes as acts of violence, deception, or harm inflicted by others. But there are crimes we commit against ourselves—each time we silence our truth, abandon our gifts, or walk away from the life that calls us.I wasn't going to let those crimes define me. Too much had been taken from me, too much given—Life was calling me back. So, one day, I packed
up the car and left.No goodbyes.
No explanations.I escaped to recover.To remember who I was before all this caused me to forget myself.I set out on a journey with no expectation, the only plan was to start over.Stay tuned….Note: Previous parts to story currently unavailable. Small selection available to subscribers on SubStack.Upon completion, the sequence is compiled, edited, and released as a single published work.
5/10 Series: The Crime(s) That Never Happened, part four:
Mark My Words
Content Notice:
Some readers may find themes distressing.Audio Text:Mark my Words.
a Fictional Truth
Part Four, of the 5/10 series.
The Crime(s) That Never Happened ....The Forward...June 15,The mind is just a canvas.Filled with lights. Sound. and Colors.desires. beliefs. Attitudes. habits.memories, thoughts, and feelings.a canvas of sensory information, and consciousness.The mind expands and contracts with awareness.To the past, present, and future. Drifting through memories. Floating through the imagination.beyond the surface.I reminded myself of this regularly as I stared into the reflection of my alligator eyes. flat, black, and still.Blunted by the events of 2024.I used to bask on golden beaches, far above the cool murky depths where I had found myself subverted to a reptilian like state. Disengaged. hidden beneath a fabricated lake.flat, black and still.My identity shifted into unknown territory. Mostly intact but, distinctly different. My capacity to experience and express emotions had been altered. (Depersonalization. Derealization.)As an artist, being deeply introspective, and intuitive, I was acutely aware of the sharp disconnection and the loss of the urge to create. My work was more than an outlet it was heavily intertwined with my identity.The threat of being erased was real. I had gone back to the vacated apartment of #1610, only to collect my artworks. The idea was to sort everything, destroy what no longer fit, examine the evidence and experience of life I had documented over the course of 20 years or so, and reorganize myself.(To remind myself of who I was before all this. Even before the crime(s) that never happened. Because it was possible that my identity had been slipping away slowly, I'll circle back. There's a difference for the gator that lives in the wild versus the gator that found its way to a fabricated lake) ***Oddly, enough, the canvases, papers, and journals began to vanish. The more I sorted, the more I organized, the more that seemed to go missing.(I may be crazy but pages had been ripped & removed, individual journals covers had been glued together. The books seemed rebound. Stacks of illustrations seemed smaller and stories reordered. An entire 72" wall canvas, disappeared. The cabinet with my personal documents, titles, passports, etc. had been pried open. & no one believed me.) ***This story is about more than one crime that never happened.The unexpected forced retreat from threatening environments. (Protective downregulation.)***I had slipped away out of self preservation. Off from a prolonged sleep disorder, thirty five plus days, and 72 hours. Removed from the extreme distress of the crimes that never happened. Disassociation from the social commentary, opinions, and whispers of the others that condemned me.Absent from the 72 hour observation.the impact that left me with sensory malfunctions. The only feelings that seem to register were physical.....undeniable painful somatic pains. and the occasional hum of electricity between my eyebrows.soft vibrations across my forehead and behind my eyes. Followed by a relaxing wave of emotional calm.Awareness of the subtle changes in pressures and tiny ripples.I wasn't designed to live below the surface. I refused to be separated from the human parts of myself, determined to recover from crimes that never happened and illusions that had distorted and violated my nature.I recalled the feeling of the ground beneath my feet and the sensation of the hot sun on my thick skin.I kept my watery alligator eyes on the horizon, just above the surface, where the sun met the cold dark water. The boundary between worlds.That's where I felt the buzz in my prefrontal cortex, awareness of what was and what could be existed in the warmth. This small sensation was the entry point, that cracked the flat, black, and glassy water, that kept me confined.Just beneath the surface, I hoovered, staring through my reflection, to the light that flickered beyond the surface, focusing on the beams that danced through the dense darkness into my watery alligator eyes. I focused on the radiant patterns that filled my psyche.The perceptive alligator learns from experience and modifies behavior.The mind was just a canvas that I would repaint myself.Mark my words....Stay tuned.
Chapter 4
a Fictional Truth
July 14
Over the past week this story came through the pen. Pages and pages of handwritten and folded notes. The evidence of my experiences captured in moments of free flow—The time set aside to process and examine life. Messy reflections and flashes of clarity.The story is important and uncomfortable at times. The purpose is not just to highlight the unspoken or to dwell of crime(s) that never happened. It’s about moving through life, navigating through dark times. Leaving a light on for those that are on their own journey.I share my words and insights to show life is composed of overlapping realities and that it’s often your personal narrative and actions that determine direction and experience. It’s important to reflect life and to demonstrate that is changeable for the better. Take from it what you will.I’m skipping over part 5, for now, because I’m tired of reliving the pain, suffering, and uncomfortable experiences— but it needs to be released. I can sit with it, but I cannot stay with it. The events of 2024 were not the first time, I found my way through difficult times. It may have been one of the most damaging— but with that I find what is not meant to last falls away. Truths revealed. Strength tested. Wisdom gained.I’m moving through the stagnation, through the dark waters of fabrications. Because, I need life to be full, purposely created, and lived with intention. In my experience, one of the greatest crimes is to let life go by with indulging in it.So, this is the close of part four
and the jump to part 6, The Journey.Stay tuned….Note: Previous parts to story currently unavailable. Small selection available to subscribers on SubStack.Upon completion, the sequence is compiled, edited, and released as a single published work.
Chapter three:
The Question Remains
Mark My Words
Part Four of the 5/10 series.
The Crime(s) That Never HappenedContent Notice:
Some readers may find themes distressing.A Fictional TruthJuly 3
The themes of words, intentions, consequences, and the lasting impact of actions, filled my mind. Words are never just sounds and vibrations. They become beliefs. Beliefs become decisions. Decisions become actions. Actions become patterns. Eventually, those patterns become a reality.I spent the better part of the summer, back a few years ago, thinking about how my situation came about. By and through the intended—or unintended—actions and words of myself and others. What had been intentionally forced into fruition?What was simply a byproduct, the unintended consequence of choices made in passing? What became the lasting damage? I don’t think anyone stopped to really consider those questions. Or the weight of consequence“A minute on the lips, a lifetime
in the heart.”I’m certain we’ve all said and done things in a moment, neglecting to think beyond the instant gratification, the fleeting emotion, or the convenient narrative. Some things cannot be erased. You don’t simply,
“forget about it and move on.”Even now, two years later, there are still stains from the mess created by the crime(s) that never happened. Created by assumption, rumor, misunderstanding, or words spoken without regard for where they might lead, the fabric of my life was altered by circumstances I never imagined I would fit.July 5
That summer, of 2024, became about recovering from months of sleep deprivation, avoidance, insomnia, and the annoying need to have the lights on through out the night— as if they would keep the “sleep demons away”. Sensory damage. The painful somatic pains. Every morning felt like a new violation had occurred. The phantom abuse, I forced myself to accept as residual effects, because thinking otherwise, proved to be crazy..Dealing with the traumas of the 72 hour observation, “the treatment” and the crime(s) that never happened are tricky. There were too many blank or erased spots that resulted from the recent months.
I existed in uncertainty, hoping time would reveal the truth.I actively had to shift my focus, rearrange my thoughts, and habits. I wanted to be from the fabrications. Removed from the stories that had been told about me, the crime(s), and the narratives that no longer served any purpose except to keep me trapped— flat, black, and still.
Hovering just below the surface.The gift of soft static across my forehead, followed by the wave of relaxing calm was activated when particular words, thoughts, and images registered as true. While this was probably neurological or sensory damage, I used it as a compass and motivation, to move from the dark murky depths to the golden sandy beaches.I worked with a counselor on understanding, learning new ways of using language as tools to restructure and reframe my thinking. I began asking different questions.
How much of our reality is shaped by conscious, deliberate, and intentional actions?How much is the unintended consequence of words spoken without reflection?How much is shaped by what we never intended—or by what we failed to do?July 7
While I felt a persistent urge to move on and simply start over, there was also a great deal of stagnation. Remaining in the same conditions wasn’t really a choice; it was a matter of circumstance. My options were limited, and I couldn’t simply walk away from everything overnight.For months, nothing changed.I was alone, isolated. Drifting.
The days blended together, each one resembling the last. It was a subtle kind of suffering—to feel trapped, backed into a corner, with so few options that every direction seemed blocked and there was nowhere for me to go.
I had to shift my mind.Slowly, intentionally, and one deliberate choice at a time
Stay tuned…
Chapter two:
What did I say?
Mark My Words
Part Four of the 5/10 series.
The Crime(s) That Never HappenedContent Notice:
Some readers may find themes distressing.A Fictional TruthJune 25
Language can be complex. I find most people don't listen, just wait their turn to speak, or hear what they want. Or maybe they don’t grasp what I said. How can I determine another person’s level of comprehension or willingness to understand? Which is often influenced by their experiences and emotional intelligence. I also know people will use your own words against you.For those reasons, I listen more than I speak. I find its best to be short, precise, and as clear as possible. Because as we speak energy is created. Take note: Choose your words carefully and speak with intension.The power of words.June 27
Just before all of this mess started back towards the end of April of 2024,
I made a joke, an unintentional bet against the future, “…how long before it all falls apart?”.While the words were based on previous experiences, that would make it a “sure bet”. Those words were not directed towards myself or personal situation, but to those of others. An energetic misfire, the sentence came back to haunt me, again, and again.What did I say?As I sat, hour after hour. Day in, day out, through the summer of 2024. My life seemingly in tatters. My world in mostly shambles. Thinking about how quickly it all seemed to, fall apart. The power of words have tangible effects; The crime(s) that never happened, the 72 hour observation. The treatment I received, the loss identity— all set into motion by words . My words, “the bet”, perhaps. The words of others.June 30
I had experienced the destructive force of words—the stories, labels, the events, and beliefs that reshaped my identity, ripped through my reality, and skewed my perceptions.There in my reptilian like state, floating in the dark depths of fabrications, starting at and through my reflection. Turning over words and ideas. I could not change what had been said. There was no way to undo what had been done. There were no words to convince others of my reality. The words cast could not be retracted.If words participated in my near destruction, I knew they could also participate in my restoration, my recreation. I had underestimated the force of language: words that frame our experiences, shape our beliefs, and ultimately influence the realities we live.The power of intentional creation.To change my life, I first had to change the language through which I understood it. I began to look for words to transmute myself from loss. New ways to articulate and express all that existed in my mind.By consciously choosing the words
I held in mind, I began practicing intentional creation. The words that resonated with my truths, brought on the soft static tingle across my forehead, the delicate wave of calm.The only way out is through.Stay tuned…
Chapter one:
What Can I Say?
Mark My Words
Part Four of the 5/10 series.
The Crime(s) That Never HappenedContent Notice:
Some readers may find themes distressing.A Fictional TruthJune 19
“Mark my words” my father would say this at the end of a lecture. The final statement that hung heavy. A stern warning, a seal. The energy of the sentence like an arrow, a sharp piercing sting, that created uncertainty. The final say, until time reveal the truth.June 21
I have the ability to feel the weight of words. I carefully monitor vocal inflections, measured by tone and vibrations. I study the flow, and pitch. I sense the air between silences. The words and phrases used or omitted. The intention. What we say is just as important as how we say it.June 23
I thought about the words that were used against me. The energy and implications attached to them. The misconceptions they generated. The power a few simple words strung together can carry. The pen is indeed mightier than the sword. The damage of words, spoken like sticks and stones, used to lash and shatter. The phrases and labels that sunk me.The words used by others around me and their misinterpretation of me that led to events, the unnecessary 72 hour observation. The treatment I received. What could be said to change the silent opinions and unknown realities that belonged to others, that existed in and around me? There wasn't much to say in my defense when the judgment and sentence were delivered all at once.How would I dispel what was cast against me?There was nothing more for me to say. There were no words that could undo what had been done. I asserted, mostly to myself, that recovering my peace, identity, and regaining what I had lost, was top priority, Nothing could be said to replace what had been stolen by the crimes that were never committed. I would take back what I could and rebuild the rest, away from the places that trapped me--Mark my words.My father’s phrase came to me, the anger in it made my forehead hum, followed by the relaxing wave of calm and intense focus. The three short words, a declaration of my determination as I recovered from the events of 2024.Now, this is easier said than done.###I thought about The words of support and comfort in a long time, long distance friend. Her voice the marker of familiarity, deep understanding, and unconditional acceptance. The melody of her words, maternal and soothing, a lullaby to my sleep deprived ears. My endorphins would drip, and oxytocin bubble. I could feel the pressure of the cortisol ease, and I would peacefully drift off to sleep, mid conversation, the electricity gently buzzing through my forehead.
Another gift that that brought me through glass surface of the darkness of the fabricated lake,
Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction created for entertainment purposes only. Any names, characters, businesses, places, events, or incidents portrayed in this story are either the product of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, locations, or real events is purely coincidental. Certain details may have been changed or altered for creative purposes and confidentiality.Copyright 2026. Yvonne Claire.
All rights reserved.
“You may think I'm small, but
I have a universe inside my mind.”
-- Yoko Ono
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