feeling like a ghost; floating through my fathers house, examining all of the pieces that have been filled with memories, not able to touch them. feeling all of the weight of the saddness, but not able to cry. not even feeling the unevenness of the falling-apart rug, or smelling the not so subtle scent of cats and cigars and time. if someone ever had a brain cloud, it's this body so loosely in my command. i pull the strings again, surprised at the ease with which i bring it to life. "get up," the words echo into it's brain, trying to spark the command that will cause the hands to push on the floor, and the whole involuntary sequence of standing up to begin. how did i come to be this thing? how did i come to carry around this body, wearing a cage and waiting for "death"? i guess i could remember, but i don't want to.
i keep this body up all night and all day, trying to wear it out faster? i don't know. it wants to hold your hand and sleep. it wants to be at peace and dream, love and be well. i can tell what it yearns for, but i resist. it wants to hear your music and dance in your arms, smelling your sweet perfumes . . . i try not to listen to it's faint demands. we have to move forward. small goals, one at a time. slowly move forward. no view of the future or memory of the past . . . keep going.
i guess the body forgets what it needs and the soul is concerned with other things . . . but what do i know?
i miss the time when things use to be connected together.
it was fun to be alive.
this place wasn't a prison, but a playground.
is there any way back?
k
p.s. i guess i get like this sometimes. sorry.