There was a circular iron table. And an iron white chair. This idyllic place. Between the side of the road and the beach. But sometimes a perfect place for writing can be a precarious thing. The dangerous places it can take you. That is, without a clean, confident, concrete fictional story in mind. I felt that I should write, but I couldn’t find it in me. The will. The detached stories. I am an alien. Long forgotten ‘home’. A stranger here. There’s nothing to tell. Or remember. Not without weaving in lies. Setting stories in a fictional past. Trying to figure out if the present is real. I woke up feeling like I had spent the night with the back of my palms. The back of my head. Hooked up to some weird contraption. Long thick brown messy cables. Lying on my back. A curtain-less, sterile, hospital-like room. White blinds. A machine. Feeding me dreams of returning home. Standing next to you. On the shore. The silvery sea before us. No words between us. Our bond of nothingness. Silence. Regrets. I spent yesterday in the bathroom. A shower of tears. Some vague sorrow. You. Your nothingness. Your mask. My own. How rootless they make me feel. Where were you when I needed you. To teach me these things. To navigate this. This. Blurriness. But it…You…shouldn’t matter. Not anymore. For I stood there. With Steve. Looking at your lifeless plastic-like face. That second time you left. The first time still an iced-over river of anger in me. Steve throwing up. My stomach of steel. And I’m the softie. But I had nothing more in me to give. Not to you. So I thought. And then we stood there in that chapel. Steve and I. The funeral home. Even your eulogy paid for. The paltriness of it all. How can a man’s life be so empty. Barren. Void of love. Void of people. Void of memories. Void of grief. Void of tears. Even in your passing. No gravesite at which to cry. Everything so easily melted down. To gray.


Thank you :-)

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