Flash Epistle Number Thirteen


You are lately feeling crushed by birthdays which stalk you like ghostly bounty hunters tracking you down to confront you with the dread question: What’s happening, baby? Dread because in your deep heart you know the answer is, not so much. How to avoid the grinding down of habit, routine, and sad sameness? Years come and years go and you feel ever more that you are fishing a dry river for departed rainbow and brook trout. You know the futility of lonely moments and the ineluctable passing away of friends and lovers, lost and gone. You pine for the rush of living water, vital streams that swept you along toward a destination other than death. When there was someplace you had to be and you were on your way. But the years have yielded to politeness. You accept a slice of cake anyway, smile and pretend that all is OK and things are right; join the celebration of the random day, put on a party hat, and laugh off the coming of the night. Cheers!

This is an excerpt from my sometime forthcoming book, Second Person Particulars.

Honorary Schizophrenic. Recent refugee. Displaced person. Old white male. Confidant of cassowaries.

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