Footsteps Heard

Anesthesia dulls my world, keeps my mind from drifting into the infinite. No more blind gazes toward what cannot be touched. It’s over. The sweet flavor was once tasted, savored deliciously as it was served. But it no longer fills his mind.

His body ages with each passing day, his thoughts blurring the reality he now inhabits. A whirlpool between past and present — with no future.

He stopped dreaming.

And in doing so, he limited his chances of discovering that he had failed.

His frustrations freeze in place.

He stopped dreaming.

Only then could he strip his body of the anguish that consumed him endlessly. Living day after day sideways, no longer able to sow hope. The words I hear do me no good; they are powerless to strike an invisible target.

There’s no use trying — it’s futile.

Deep down, I don’t want to be helped.

I accept what I chose for myself, no matter how it may appear in your eyes. Who’s to say that what you see is even real?

My screams echo — and it feels good.

Where there is echo, there is emptiness.

For me


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