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memoirs of a manI am the anchor at the bottom of the dark, dark sea, held down by my own heavy weight.
I am the rainy, fog covered streets at night, and I am the wind that pushes you back, back, back and spins you in the wrong direction. I am the flickering candle at your bedside table, dying a long, languid death until at last I burn myself out. I am the barely-there moon hanging in the star-studded sky, watching over you from afar, forever hidden behind midnight-black clouds. I am the unnamed presence- the ghost - that drifts always through your thoughts.
I am the shadow in the cracked glass mirror, looming over your shoulder and causing one, two, three tremors of unwelcome fear. I am the stray dog slinking throughout the labyrinth city- unwanted, unloved. Forgotten.
I am the picture with the broken frame, the ink smear on parchment that even time cannot erase. I am the love letter that you never read, locked away out of sight and out of mind. I am the something that you want
DreamerI had always been a dreamer.
Where others saw only emptiness, my eyes spotted the delicate details that had only ever been unnoticed and forgotten.
There is an irresistible something about outcasts that pulls us together, something that opens us to one another and allows us to truly see.
I was a dreamer, and so I never simply passed over the insignificant. Because I myself was insignificant, my eyes had been opened to visions that were otherwise hidden from view, concealed behind clever, oh-so-pretty facades whose elegance was much more evident to the untrained eye.
Life was a dream of a grand scale, a dream that was revealed to a chosen few and withheld from the unfortunate rest. Those who were too blind to see the dream chose instead to face reality and to grow up. The childish innocence of the imagination, however, could not be reclaimed once renounced.
There was a magic in the way a rainy day could change the way one saw the world. I could look through a veil of the falling
paper wingsshe is delicate, a fragile
doll made of paper-skin
and feeble, hollow bones.
her heart is wasted away,
empty of emotions and
empty of love.
but she has a heartbeat,
and though it's weak
it still pulses, nearly soundless.
she likes to think that
a cage could not hold her back,
that she has wings to fly.
her body is so frail and light
that it could be possible,
she says to herself.
but when you are surrounded
by the darkness, it is hard
to keep hope.
she is delicate, a fragile
bird with wings of paper feathers
that cannot fly.
deathi knew a man once who feared death.
who feared the unknown, and
the end, as well as
but what he feared most of all were
what if? he asked.
what if i were to die, and my soul
never left the earth?
would i remain here, a mere phantom
forever damned to roam?
there was a boy, too.
a boy who did not fear death, but embraced it.
the unknown was lovely,
the beginning a gift, and the end
was not the end, but an accepted
aspect of life.
the in-betweens were glorious,
moments to discover and imagine.
if, he said to me,
if i were to die, and my soul
never left the earth,
and if i were to remain here,
a mere phantom forever damned to roam
then- then at last would i know freedom
for what else can it be,
when you are as a ghost
and may see the world, yet not be seen?
what else can it be,
when you have forever in your hands
and can dream amongst the stars?
for when the end of all things comes
i shall be heartened to see
that cloaked reaper of souls,
All Here For A ReasonI turned onto a shady, well-manicured driveway that, for all intents and purposes, looked harmless enough. Maple trees lined both sides of the street, and a parade of Canadian geese marched across the road to a wide duck pond with a flamboyant fountain. There were blooming crepe myrtles and rose-of-sharons, and as I grew closer to my destination, neatly trimmed gardens with neatly trimmed bushes.
I stopped to let the geese pass. They looked at me; one hissed. I honked my horn and moved around them.
At the end of the road sat a collection of grayish buildings and a number of signs directing me to the appropriate parking lot. "Welcome to Ten Creeks Hospital," said one of them. "Please enjoy your stay." I parked in the visitor's lot. Surely I wouldn't be staying.
I was shaking when I got out of my car. I had spent the morning getting high. One foot in front of the other, flip-flop noises, hot sidewalk. Mulberry and magnolia trees, freshly shaved grass. A bench and pan for smokers. A set o
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