Illusory Perfection.

I am captive and captured in stills, recalled and rendered in sepia toned illusion. My skin is translucent and tangible only to those with clever eyes and a mangled perception. It is there, hovering above birthdays, anniversaries, doctor appointments, and due dates that you will find me, a constant reminder to offer best wishes and maintain schedule. It seems strange to consider that someone would be ticking off days in such a way, counting down to events that I will never attend.

I am usually inspired while I do my ticking, but that does not happen very often. It is rarely with me, and I often forget…tick, tick, tick.

I am absent, and days go by while I forget. But I am drawn out soon enough. The need to move among the living, shoulder to shoulder, pulls me from my daydream. I must be just in reach. Then I wander off for a coffee, and I am reminded again, my impulsive progression brought to a screeching halt by an unfamiliar voice. The sinister tone still rings my ears “Hey motherfucker you got anything real to say?” I never do. I will though, and I will smile when I say it. “Too bad you missed it prick.”

Now that I have had a good breather, stretched my legs, and fashioned myself a clever new suit, I will attempt to remember to tick off the days.

There are things that I have yet to say, ears I have yet to perk. Shall I scream?


p.s. strange days.