Nothing Goes Away
An object in time travels if and only if the difference between its departure and arrival times, as measured in the surrounding world, does not equal the duration of the journey it undergoes. In this place, the soft grey shawl and my knitting project are on my Anthropologie quilted bed.
Amnesia & Medical Visits
As is common with lengthy hospital stays, I was attached to the bed through my hardworking IV pole. And a built-in bed alarm. Then, on my last couple of days, I was released from the alarm. YAY! I was able to, with IV pole in tow, go the bathroom all by myself.
ABOUT TIME
Things, like time, are war. Games. War games. Time—is of the essence. Life, too, is also of the essence. I grasp the heavy rifle in my hands. I blast the abyss with bullets of memories, leaving sparkling lights that, slow, dim into the darkness.
Strange Truths
We didn’t have an ocean view. It didn’t matter. We walked around the green pond. It was small, but it reminded me of us. Not flashy, but quietly there. Some things seem unimportant at first, but they grow on you.
My Life With Death: Suicide & Survival
You have bleach, a box of razor blades you bought twenty years ago, at Flax, and a very sharp chef's knife. But the knife was a birthday gift so it seems disrespectful to use it to slit your wrists. Plus, wrist slitting seems like an acute challenge and you've never been good with details.
Celebrating Life, Death and Peace
The piece depicts the journey of grieving after losing a loved one, transitioning from an initial support phase filled with gatherings and shared memories to a profound solitude. As friends return to their lives, the narrator struggles with the emptiness, slowly navigating through grief, acceptance, and the struggle to redefine existence without the deceased.
My Worlds Of Words
Like a lot of people, I wake up every morning. I'm sure this is true because I'm alive. Again. I'm in a living room, on a sofa. Staring at my hands.
ABOUT TIME
Things, like time, are war. Games. War games. Time—is of the essence. I grasp the heavy rifle in my hands. I blast the abyss with bullets of memories, leaving sparkling lights that, slow, dim into the darkness. Often I wish I was still younger. My terrain in my head, then, was a much smaller area to blow up.