Chapter 1

Someone told me that I should write down my thoughts. They said that it was something that would help me organize all the shouting voices in my head. Honestly, I don’t really see the use in that. I like my shouting to be confused. At least then it makes sense. Otherwise it’s like some media-envisioned drill instructor barking orders at you and telling you what scum you are. I think that shouting should be chaotic—a spontaneous outburst of raw emotion. To me, controlled, orderly shouting is scary. There should be no premeditation; just a pure release of the soul. I don’t want to control it. I mean, I tell myself that I want the shouting to find its release and then retreat leaving me stillness to reflect on its words. On the other hand, the shouting has become me and who I am, and I fear the day that it stops.  But for now, I’m taking the advice. I just don’t remember from where the advice came. Was it someone’s insight I trust, someone’s insight I don’t trust, or just a random thought? While the world and my life in it spins around corners and hallways, doorways and walls, there are glimpses of rooms dressed in facades where scenes are played out on stages. Sometimes I am an observer while other times I’m an actor. I trust my instincts, though, and right now they are telling me to write.

Fast forward through
The daily routine.
No need to watch;
You've seen it before.

Although subtle changes
May sometimes appear,
They remain unseen--
Lost in the blur.

Something catches your eye,
You grab the remote.
But the controls don't work,
The batteries are drained.

So there is no stop;
There is no rewind.
The play button's broken;
Hang on for the ride!

A chest,
A book,
A scent,
A look.
Vanishing slowly;
Pieces of you.

A home,
A plan,
A future,
A laugh,
Vanishing slowly;
pieces of life.

A love,
A bond,
A trust,
All gone.
Vanishing slowly;
Pieces of me.

I:  Death

She stood above me at the top of a long, plush staircase—each stair padded with a thin layer of foam and encased in a red velvet shell—holding the spiritual implement of my death in her sticky, blood-stained hands. Her yellow shirt was paired with white shorts, white knee socks, white shoes, and a white hat. Her smile was matched by the shy innocence reflected in her glassy eyes. Already the look of happy recognition was vanishing from her face as the existence of my memory erased itself from her usually flawless recollection. She saw me not as a friend nor a stranger nor an acquaintance, but as a whisper of wind that touched her cheek and stroked her hair; a cooling breeze on a hot day; a comforting blanket of warmth and understanding on a cold night. She saw my physical being no more and would not miss me because she never knew me. Yet I remembered.

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