Eleven

What do I write about? What do I say? It’s 2:29 AM and the blinking pointer of MS Word awaits a push up-front. It’s much easier to move it backwards than to push it forward. But why does that make any sense?

I think faster than I forget.

My heart beats but my brain pumps, each and every second as my eyes rush from left to right refreshing the view every now and then, with a momentary lapse. And then it fades to black.

What am I thinking? A million things probably, but I must choose very wisely about what I let slip from the white to black.

A distortion of colors perhaps. The one I paint, hazy, delicate and quaint.

I lost two friends, two friends to death. Left me feeling numb, I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t attend their funeral or made calls to their families. Never looked at the calendar to mark their deaths, it was denial at its best. Ignored the songs that reminded me of them, the places where our shadows once lingered; looked away as I witnessed messages from other friends.

It’s 2:32 AM and the blinking pointer slows down as if recounting its own times of the old; a delicate push, a hasty pull. A promise I never kept, a promise to someone I knew. Write about me one day. Write about us. And here I do my friend, not for redemption, nor fulfillment of an old promise, but catharsis. Catharsis at its best.

It’s 2:38 AM and the blinking pointer is dead. A short life. A birth I delayed until my friends were dead, dead in my head. Yet alive, alive in what I just said.

It’s 2:40 AM. It’s been 11 minutes. 11 minutes of pain.

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