As Safe As Yesterday

A shift places me in another realm. Here I can use nothing from my past. Here I am largely invisible. As I emerged from the unreal, many props were available for my choosing, but I was only allowed to select five. I guess I should have taken the sack of gold, but thought it was too heavy to lug around. The reason I, for the most part, cannot be seen is because I chose the cloak, which, itself, cannot be seen. Therefore, I must take care with it, lest I leave it somewhere and later am unable to find it. The other four items each have their uses. Seems I need the props as within myself I do not appear to have the resources to survive in any kind of luxurious manner.
And so my journey begins. I should not look back, but there are moments when I find reflection unavoidable.
So much family time, and myriad experiences blend in a haze of recollection. And the people. The people are as wisps of smoke. The expression “As safe as yesterday,” is cold comfort, when my yesterdays have become detached.

The Sound of a Tear

I was walking along a stone path and the sun was shining. I was walking but my feet were not touching the ground. I could hear someone speaking but I couldn’t understand what was being said and I moved in the direction of the sounds. I left the path and entered an opening in some shrubbery, and there, as if having a picnic, were Edward and Diana. She said something to him in Italian and he shook his head in denial. Then, he stood and walked away from her and she began to cry. I wanted to go to her to console her, but before I could move my double came toward her from the direction her husband had gone. This guy had a menacing look on his face as he came toward her with his hands outstretched. His shirt kept changing colors subtly through all shades of the spectrum. He put his hands around her throat and began strangling her, but rather than appearing alarmed, she was just smiling in that soft way of hers. I thought it very odd that I could hear the sound of a tear splashing on his hand, a tear which caught a glint of sunlight and appeared whiter than white.
As I started to run forward to prevent his killing her, I was awakened by the sound of rapping at my door.
It was Dario. “Hey, man,” he said, “What’s up? You’re sweating like a pig.”
“I fell asleep without the fan on,” I said, “And I had a bad dream.”
“Oh, man,” he said, “It’s hotter than hell in here. Open a window or something.” He walked to the other side of the room and started to do just that. “Do you mind?”
“No,” I said, “No, go ahead.” I went looking for a cigarette without success, and asked, “You got any smokes?”
“Man, those things will kill you,” he said, shaking his head. “Let’s go get something to eat. I feel like eating Italian.”

Incommunicado

It will come to me in bits and pieces, I know. I went away for a while. Stopped communicating.
I found my face on a sculpture, so realistically portrayed I knew I was looking at myself, and having absolutely no relationship with the artist, I came to believe I must have passed through one of his dreams.
Maybe my thoughts were running out of control and I was taking a series of coincidences way beyond their logical conclusions, but this is the kind of thing I do. I take odd circumstances and make fiction out of them. And what I believed I saw happening here was something that was making a fiction out of me.
Now, I’ve been here three months and I’m feeling more lost and helpless than ever.
Late last night I swam in a deserted pool trying to plan a course of action when it occurred to me that if someone who looks like me is moving into my life, he might be working at my job and spending time with my friends and I might not even be missed. Or if I am going mad, surely someone somewhere wonders where I am.
So, I thought I would write this to catalog what is happening, but truthfully, I’m not certain that I am prepared for any response concerning what has occurred during my absence.