24
Jan
10

The Quiet Of A Mind Slipping Away

he grabs all the memories he can in both hands and races out the door, up the staircase of his imagination and onto the roof. afraid they’re vastly approaching, he hurries to the ledge and starts throwing them off. One by one they go over, speeding toward the concrete below, then finally, they touch and explode.

in a panic, he drops a few, keeps tossing the others toward a ficticious freedom then bends down to collect his breath, picking up the rest.

his first sunset. the sound of his mother’s voice. the heartbeat of his last lover. change falling and spinning round and round on table tops. cars racing by on rainy days and splashing through puddles. crickets. children at play. and silence. he remembers how beautiful nothing can sound, how it slips silently into the ear, and slides down into the stomach and makes itself comfortable and warm.

and suddenly he realizes that no one’s racing up the steps behind him. that being alone can be as beautiful as the silence if you sit still long enough to enjoy it. that the only nightmares are the one’s you let scare you into believing there’s no such thing as dreams. that every dark night must succumb to the rising of the sun. and he collects the rest of his memories and places them on his tongue —

and then he jumps

silently.

6/27/2009 1:45AM.

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