Thoughts at 3 AM…
Prose
I’ve been having the strangest thoughts lately. One of these days my car just topples off the road and hits a tree and not a thing changes with the world. I become just another case at the Police station, another report at the hospital, and another prayer at the temple — replacing someone else from yesterday.
The only place I cannot be replaced would be my home. Because, there, I am not just a name or number.
But then I realize, I don’t have a home. My memories will rust in my rooms. In dirty cups in the sink, in folded sheets inside my closet, in worn out shoes near the door, and in leftover cigarettes in my ashtray. Maybe there’s grace in leaving silently, maybe there’s shame in dying without tears. I don’t know.
What I know is sometimes, the lonely life is quiet. Sometimes, the lonely life is mad. But most often, the lonely life is lonely.
