He sat at his desk and deconstructed himself over drinks, laying out the chunks of consciousness for examination, for others to see. It was admittedly uncomfortable, but ultimately necessary to understand that he was not the blurry outline of a person that he thought he was. He hated things, and loved things, and stood for this and that – each mulled over, hand selected. Unwilling to blindly jump into the shadow of a cause. But he’d always felt undefined.
The pen he held was still an awkward scalpel; pools of blood and ink spilled over journals and newspapers as he struggled to get it right. When it all felt done he let his spine straighten against the back of the chair and lit a cigarette. Then put it out, lamenting getting old, his stupid health. He lit a word-strewn page with a match and just let it burn.
When the firefighters came they found nothing but muddy footprints on the carpet and a half-packed suitcase. Miles away, someone’s ashes were being sprinkled onto a rocky shore of the Atlantic.
- October 5, 2007. Madison.
