I’m drifting a way into a river full of dreams that runs into a waterfall that drops into an unknown galaxy. I can no longer tell if I’m here or there, if what I see is real or imagined. I imagine it’s an imagination but when does imagining end?
They told me it wouldn’t last forever and I asked them “what does?” They couldn’t answer me. The cybernetics that now made up 68.75% of my body was what they were alluding to wouldn’t last forever. The surgery was a success, as far as you could call becoming half machine a success.
My dreams were no longer my own and I had felt as though there was always someone watching me. I often times mistaken this new presence for God. The God I believed in before, I no longer knew if he, or it, was there.
I just wanted to sleep and not wake up until my body was back to the way it was when I was ten years old and growth was limitless.
I pass by a graveyard, riding public transportation to my destination at the present, whilst catching a glimpse of a man kneeling at a tombstone with two officials standing behind him… waiting. I wonder about the context of his visitation while he speaks thus to the rock engraved Liza Mari 1972-2012; her epitaph reads: Flower
There is always much to much to think about. One thought enters, fighting, while another flees from your remembrance, defeated. Down there, do you ever think about me? Poor flower, you’ve lost all of your luster. Now–now you’re not even desired by bees! I am left only with the residue of your pollen on my hands; not blood, as they believe. I’d shed a tear for you if it could be discerned from this autumnal rain. Or ease this guilt, doubling my pain. ‘Til next year — flower.
He rises with his hands clasped tightly around his hat. The two men start towards him as the bus reaches a point where the scene becomes just another memory.