The Ghosts are Laughing
–Rick AndersonWithin the bony armorof this disordered mindticks a callous timepiece;a ruthless agent of judgmentthere to punish, to remind.Like slowly dripping water,its monotony is unrelenting,straining the thin threadssuspending my desperation.Its claw-like hands reach out,slashing honed razors,each tick slicing deeplyinto my tenuous sanity.Teetering over the edge,I topple into affectless isolationand the refuge of memory.I try but can’t rememberthat one last momentof contented silence,that perfect frame ofsimple, sweet stillness.And I can’t always discernrealities from fantasies,or truths from imaginings,inside my mental carnival.Confused and perplexed,I ask the questions aloudbut the ghosts only laugh.They already know the thingsI have yet to learnin the hardest of ways.Inevitably I will learn—I am learning—that being alone,being lonely always,being nothing forevermoreis a burden far greaterthan I have ever knownand I cannot bear it.So, like the ghosts before me,I will dream of the Boatmanand passage into the voidto surrender myselfunto the Timekeeperand beg him to stop the clock.
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