Gone.

When I first saw that ad in the newspaper, I choked and spat hot coffee all over my lap. Swearing and more choking ensued. Glancing once more at the ad, I made my resolution in an instant. I tore the paper up and threw it in the fireplace. A bit superfluous, considering that the torn paper was already illegible. Still, it gave a sort of satisfaction to burn away a memory of you.

In the bathroom, the mirror was cracked. It was split right down the middle, its shimmering surface scarred by ugly brown lines. I could have sworn it wasn't like that before. Split right down the middle. As if for two people. There was a flash of fists, and knuckles burst. Blood slowly dripped onto shattered, gleaming fragments of what used to be the bathroom mirror. I watched my reflection in the pieces as they were slowly swallowed up by a sea of red.

Up in the bedroom, your possessions were scattered about the room, as if they were forgotten toys in a child's nursery. There's no use trying to hide it. I collapsed on the floor, sobbing. A tiger is never going to change its stripes, I guess, but Jesus -- what a mess.

Maybe this really isn't as heard as it seems. Maybe I'm just weak. But it's hard with no one here to help me through it.

I wish you had a number where you are.

Incendiary Blooms.

I walk down the city streets at night; the lights are so cold and violent. A shrill, fluctuating call echos into distinction. The flashing lights of a firetruck appear in the distance. It's a marvel. All this hatred and horror in the world, and then there are these men. Rushing to save someone's life.

It's sad but true, life is bound to get you down. Anyway, the world is pretty...

I've spent years of my life, worrying about these little fires I've started. Apparently, being strong doesn't mean you need to be flame retardant. But these little cinders and embers have made me stronger, so I guess a crucible was necessary.

It's sad but true, life can turn your smile into a frown. Anyway, the world is pretty upside down...

But lying in my hospital bed, recovering from the scorching fires and singeing embers, a question is called into play. In order to dress the wounds, one must call into question how authentic they are. So how real are they? As tears stream down my flame-licked face, I remember what you said. "He just likes playing hospital." But then again, it's like you said; "there's no such thing as accidents."

It's sad but true, but the gleaming white of the hospital floors won't tell you how to combat misery. Anyway, the world is pretty happy without you.

But it's like you said; "Nobody deserves to die for you, but you were awful firm when you said they had to like you or they had one other choice...

The fuzzy television, the gleaming window, and red roses. Flash. Swimming pictures, red confusion.
I suppose, if I rock should hit my head and I remember what you did, there will be orange and red flowers licking and flicking at your heels.

And memories of a torched apartment come flooding back. The shattered window. The blooming roses of fire. As I had walked into the apartment, peeling the mittens that had frozen to my wrists, I swear I heard a voice come from the kitchen.

"Oh, god..."
"Oh, god..."

"Oh, well..."

Fall.

There needs to be a season in which every fallen thing rises. Every man, every trampled flower, every forgotten toy, and every shred of shattered dignity rises again, with soft wings. Just feel what it's like to be alive again. Just for one season.

Listless Turmoil.

Humans plan. They plan when to speak. They plan when to sleep. They plan when to eat. And they tear each other apart. Genocides. Mass killings. Rape. Murder. Theft. They burn one another to the ground, just to top the bill. It's a mundane existence. Most marriages are simply for gratification. Men looking for satisfaction. Women looking for money. And for a while, they're happy. But then the insecurities begin to eat away at them. A little squabble here, a little domestic violence there, and what do you know? The wife's dead and the husband's in jail.

Animals plan too. When to sleep. To hibernate. To hunt. And they tear each other apart as well. Some eat their mates. Some kill each other to prove who's the top dog. They rip them to shreds over a mate that they'll probably end up killing anyway. Sound familiar?

Both are capable of emotion. Of hate. Of happiness. Sorrow. Love. Joy. Anger. Jealousy. Hubris. The list goes on and on.

But a virus isn't. And a virus doesn't. It doesn't plan when to strike. It doesn't feel hate for each individual it infects. It doesn't feel sorrow. It doesn't celebrate the fact that it's killed hundreds of people. It isn't even aware of what it is doing. It just is. It simply exists for its purpose.

Sometimes, I wonder if that existence would be better than the current state of the human race.