Cataclysmic ironies have slow regard, as the most painful of experiences are never over quickly.
Echoes of voices dance on the wind as faint memories. The past, it taunts me like an old, spiteful enemy: forgotten names, recognized faces, tip-of-the-tongue tales, and frustrations. It creeps in as ice in the heart. Storms of emotions, reminders, then the paralyzing recollection.
Loud silence and blissful melancholy, daydreams occupied by nightmares and a quiet, seeping cold. Thoughts scatter on focus, spoken words shatter like glass; fragmented, incomplete. Knots, tightness, blurred vision. I write you my dishonest note,
“I’m fine.”