"You know, one time I saw him? I was alone. I had been alone for a month. It was my tiny dismal apartment in Portland and I had no one to talk with, so I stayed in and hid in my depression. He was about three months dead when he got curious, and I... well I was rotting in my own hell where I had wrought my own bars. And as I'm fading in and out of consciousness, here he comes... more worried about me than himself. My incredulity at his appearance seemed only to strike him as more worrying. I wonder... How sad do you have to be to be pitied by the dead? Anyhow, from that time on I was obviously not an atheist. I'd had a smoking gun held to my temple, and he strode cautiously back into my mind like a worried parent running after their crying child. He was my best friend, you see. Still is. And he taught me one last thing. It's those feelings. That pain. That experience that matters. As horrid and subjective as that experience is, reality is really just our own theater playing the dramas we write."
YOU ARE READING
Floating
PuisiI've collected a lot of works I have made for me and thrown them into a mess of empathic poetry I have done for others.
