Perhaps, that’s all there is to living

Can’t write that story because who would believe
it, I wonder, myself, how much of it is true, pain is

surreal even as it throbs, a Dali-esque landscape with
no sign posts. Perhaps, that’s all there is to living:

running faster than memory, so it falters, flattens,
fattens as it pursues my reluctance, becomes a

disconnected shadow that has no locus, no umbilical
cord. No mother. I want to write of the day that came

unstuck from that storyboard of same-same mornings
and self-devouring nights. Something changed then. Or

maybe I only noticed it in that moment. Or maybe I
made it up. You can’t return to what you left behind

except as a stranger. What was the colour of the moon’s
unseeing eye? To remember, to remember is to lie.

2 thoughts on “Perhaps, that’s all there is to living

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