Daily missive for Monday the 4th of November.
Words floated in the mud.
They were dense with meaning.
But the way they tumbled
one over another
he could never make them out.
He closed his ears.
Conversations
drifted and bubbled.
He was a rock in the stream
of consciousness
but the meaning was opaque.
It was a wall of noise
to him now.
He was in its way
and he struggled with the flow,
no longer central to its progress
and the reality of inconsequence
hit him hard.
He was a stumbling block,
nothing more
the conversation had moved on.
It left him gasping
in its wake.
Feeling his age
And peripheral to life.
Daily missive for Tuesday the 5th of November.
The cough left him breathless.
His chest hurt
and he spat blood into the dirt.
Nothing about this morning
was romantic.
His life was on the slide.
Even his lungs were failing.
Just like his hopes.
Old bones turned to rust
He was nothing more
than a blurred photograph
in an old shoe box
that his grandchildren
might find one day.
A footnote in their lives.
He could never return,
too much to re-learn.
Drink and madness
he forgot which came first
but knew what was worse.
It was a gradual loss.
A stripping away.
Layer by layer.
And it made him
invisible to the world
his life gone, somehow.
