Ghosts' of November

Chapter 13: All That Glitters Isn't Gold

> I'll never understand how the dreams aren't memories, but they are not imagination either. They are something in between; someplace between fear and regret. Sometimes the dreams are the memories I hold onto, and sometimes they are the screams I can't let go of. I didn't get out of bed, as the shadows on the walls slowly came into focus. There never seems to be sound in these dreams, only emotion. There never seems to be emotion in these dreams, only panic. Maybe life is nothing more than one long dream, and we are all sleep walking against our wills. I wonder why we ever only dream when we sleep. Is it not possible to dream while you are awake? The skeletons can only hide behind what we put in the closet.

> There is only one time I can remember not having nightmares, but it was then I forgot how to sleep. It was during the second tour in Vietnam, I had woken up screaming in fear. Old Man Jack thought I was afraid of the war, and was terrified I'd get him killed with all that noise. He smiled when he pulled out the little pill, and seemed to even believe it when he said I would be just like superman after I took it. It wasn't long before that little pill was replaced by a needle, and nothing was ever the same again. That needle took almost everything, but it was the dreams I missed the least. I may have many scars, but there are only two that are constant reminders to how much pain is attached to what once was.

> The first was an accident but mostly on purpose, and the second the same. There was one scar along the thigh, the blade had cut deep because I thought it was safe. The other a bruised vein that forgot how to live. It is funny how these memories always seem to come around after the dreams I can't outlive. Here I sit staring into the darkness and remembering how close to the end I came both times. The blade brought freedom from the pain as I controlled the pain, or so I tried to believe. The needle, well that, maybe that is a story I am not ready to remember. She said she didn't notice the scars, because she could only see what she chose to look at. She always said love was blind, and she could only see the man she knows.

> The sun was never late, but there are some mornings when it arrives too early. Somehow the world had been asked to be put on pause, and it obeyed. The world may have not changed, but that sure didn't stop time from changing. I think about her often in these times when sleep scares me, and her voice isn't here to whisper its comfort. She always knew what to say, even if she said nothing at all. She once said she only could find peace when she had forgiven those who had hurt her the most. She was the most peaceful person I had ever known. How could I ever forgive The Old Man, even after all of these years. I've yet to read his last letter, but I remember Robert being at his funeral.

> Eventually the silence becomes too loud and I must get out of bed. The box sits there as a reminder of everything that once was, but then again never was. There are so many moments that don't need to be remembered because they can never be forgotten. There are so many words that I never got around to saying. She put a picture in the first letter she sent when I was off lost to the jungle. She was smiling, but it wasn't the smile I remembered, this one seemed to be practiced. What I remembered was how I felt when I saw her again; there is just too much regret for one life to take. I can hear Lizzy sometimes when I read, her voice whispering along just like she did so long ago. I still can't hear her voice though, and that is what I miss the most.

> I go and turn on the radio, the silence is too empty, and I am too lonely. The DJ spends too much time talking about things that have ceased to be important, and all I want is some music. I turn to the record player, one of the few things that has seemed to survive time. She always had a favorite record, it was by Neil Young, it came out the year she learned to live. It was the closest I could get to hearing her voice. I sit close enough to the window so that I can watch the world below. It seems most of the time everyone is just too busy to smile anymore. The coffee cup is half empty, as words to some song follow the rhythm of a guitar. There is not a single thing I could ever change in that box.