whirlpooled topics unbackspaced. streams of consciousness. blurts. scribbled notes. outlined ideas. velocity waves. snatches from icloud. because self-editing is a writer’s cowardly way of preventing a reader from fucking the writer's confidence. dates don't matter. memories and moments aren't chronologically marked on the soul.

Final Examinations

I look around the room. Mementos of trips. Events. Figurines bought by children as gifts. Now I’m making lists. That I’ll give to a sister. That I’ll throw away. I don’t think I could live here without them. Job offers here. Job offers Chicago. Bahamas. Boston.  Some better than others. I’m sitting here making a list. Why stay here? Why move there? Which job has the most potential? Fastest cash? I’m making lists. Stay for who? Who would I miss? Who would tidy the graves? Who? Where’s the future? Who’s my future? This morning I’m listless. Making lists. Yesterday spiritual direction. What more do I owe? Where are my responsibilities? Who are my responsibilities? I ask Father. His reply: “Mark you don’t have to examine grief. You just have to feel it.” That’s my sentence today. I’ll hold that today. I don’t feel depressed. I don’t feel anxious. I feel sad. So many things to settle. I feel unsettled.