I am a stranger to myself
My face in the mirror is not recognizable
Shadows peering from the corner
Cover my countenance
Alienation, deep and bitter
An outsider to the process of life
On the summer-soaked beach of eternity
Split off from my subconscious
Ghost–walker, the sun is a fickle mistress
And the Egyptians were right to fear
The ultimate power of the Sun God
Who takes no prisoners
The gods often come in disguise. I know this, I know it all too well. But I forget sometimes. The slick salesman didn’t look like a god – far from it. He was a wheeler-and-dealer, a card shark. He told me so.
Jet-black hair slicked back, greasy with gel. White dress shirt, dark red tie that screamed “power!” and “too much testosterone!” What a bore this guy was. He tried to sell me a used car, something that wouldn’t get me very far, one that would creak, moan, die by the side of the road.
The people in this apartment complex are so nice!
They smile, ask how I’m doing
I can tell they mean it by their bright eyes,
gentle body language, the way they speak of
this complex as a community.
But why does it seem so strange?
Behind these pearly-white smiles,
are they planning my demise?
Here’s a piece of flash fiction I wrote a couple of years ago that, I suppose, is semi-autobiographical. It’s about loneliness and the yearning for human connection.