Tuesday, August 25, 2009

Not Dying

I am not dying, although many will think that I am. My flesh is no longer pink as they remember, and the sun does not spend hours upon my skin as in years past. The people who once held me no longer remember my arms. The ones who laughed with me will scarcely remember my form or the deepness of my singing voice. My name will come up at parties, where friends who have grown wider and older will remember the times of the past, and I will fit into the pieces of the puzzle and they will think of me and wonder about my grave.
Off of what cliff did I walk?
Under what star do I now breathe and work?
No one has heard from me. No one has seen me. No one truly ever did.
But I am not dying, I am not hidden in the dark places between rocks.
I am not dying, I am only becoming invisible.
Like the flickering lights of a TV set, I am dwindling, declining in physical substance. Atoms have torn apart, taking with them my curly hair and with them the cheeks some will remember and with them the person once seen.
To those who knew me, I am gone. A name of the past, a character in a book that had long since gathered dust on the highest shelf. I am becoming invisible to the ones that walked and cried and laughed with me….the ones who blindly pushed me on the path and the ones who could see it coming.
They can no longer see me, but if they look, they might get a glimpse of the traces I leave behind. Images and sounds, vibrant colors with ribbons of truth that dangle from the ends.
They cannot see me, just the electrified trail that buzzes when seen.
And I am Nameless now, even my picture flickers from the pages of an album, even the memory will crumble with the coming years.
I am quiet, formless, traveling the blue roads. Moving forward, using the past, delving into it with the newfound realization of form and language. Using scissors and glue and rocks and wind and little green bits to turn it all over and examine it again, looking for the truths, looking for the sparks, amazed at the questions and wanting and head-banging. Looking at it all, holding it like a child makes sandcastles, each piece a wonderful part of the puzzle, the earth at my feet, the stardust inside that can either push me forward or pull me back, depending on the method used.
I am walking forward, under a blue sun, under a red covered sky, I move towards the distant dreaming deserts. A place seen in dreams, a place that might not be…but moving forward still.
I am not dying, I am not gone, it is only to those who look with the old eyes, the ones who cannot find the colored ribbons, the sounds that used to make a body shiver and now exalt the remains of flesh.
This is the new, the invisible to those without careful eyes.
To the one that I stepped away from, to the ones who may never know me again, yes, to those people, I am not dying. To them, I am already dead.

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