Parts of me died along the way. I wonder what others see. For when I look in my reflection, the person staring back looks almost complete.
Skeletal existence. My mind is dead to a certain point. Hanging on to a dead branch, waiting to take new form. Or go back to old form.
Anthropologically, I make sense. But historically, misplaced. But that’s not my fault, just the fault of embracing another’s face.
I walked around as a complete puzzle. Now my pieces have jumbled into the paleolithic sky. Other pieces, I require, to complete me. Other people mix and match their awareness, trying to piece me together, to see and help me be whole again.
But others, I am afraid, see me. And they turn the other way.
A couple more weeks, until I’m good as new. Couple of weeks, before I become renewed and glued into holding my head in a way where it’s screwed on tighter than before I got a head of myself, interpreted in a fashion that was outdated.
I’ll be welcomed back when I get back to myself. Then I’ll help piece together others who lost their head.
Journalistic Writing
Likes
756 Views
Share: