Life After Death

Six pages of questions eighteen year-old self wrote to Eskridge.
What do orphaned teenagers do in this world?
What do orphaned 40 year olds do?
Where does the light go when it’s eclipsed?
Is darkness really darkness?
Is light really light?
Can people not understand trauma unless they experience it?
Experience it long enough to see it from the other side ?
Does trauma lead to higher perspective and understanding?
It’s a chaotic world creating order.
It’s an ordered world disordered in devil-mode.
Never make love unless it’s pure and true.
Purity and truth are only things can’t see through.
Words come and fingers type.
Who needs thought into these things?
Who needs thought into who gets it?
Anyone could see this.
Anyone could be this.
Time just travels into more time.
All the goodness of anxiety.
All the anxiety of goodness.
Transmutation to seen and spoken verbs.
It’s conscientiousness sometimes.
It’s creative artistry others.
It’s rare when they combine.
And here I am:
not whole, not broken.
Just am…
in-between the hyphen in-between.

This is life after death.


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