Bubbles_glow

≡ Inside Kaleidoscope Dreams ≡

 
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  • Childhood
  • Artists
  • Fears
  • Death
  • Parenthood
  • Technology
  • Oddities
  • School
  • First Person Narrative
  • Second Person Narrative
  • Third Person Narrative
Inside Kaleidoscope Dreams
 
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Step Inside The Kaleidoscope

Notice the shards -- the collected pieces of colors -- the kaleidoscope of voices that inhabit our minds. Distant echoes that seem at once so familiar and yet so strange, too. These are the stories being told every day inside of our lives, although often they are silenced by the world around us. Go ahead and twist the kaleidoscope. Change your view. Wander into the narrative. Consider yourself invited.

-- Kevin


Leaves Balloon Death Ants Yawn Guitar Threads Black_friday Disconnect Cat Tears Godzilla Test Bridge Winner Headless Blood Performance Ghost Smog Er Elevator
 
Tears
Tears

No one noticed me. They never do. I was dressed impeccably in my best suit, hands in my lap, a mournful gaze on my face. I was respectful and in a funeral, no one questions those who are properly contained in the skin of emotional reserve. The body looked handsome, given the circumstances. How it is that they can prepare such things is beyond me. Perhaps we would be better off if this weren't the case, if we had to look at the dead as they are and not as we imagine they should be. The mother was weeping in the corner, being held together by what looked like one of her other children. The father was in the back of the room, drinking coffee with other men. All of them removed from action. I nodded silently to a few other people in the seats near me. We were in this together, our collective nods seemed to say, acknowledging the loss. The service was short and to the point. Life lived. Too short. Grief. I waited for the tears and again, they didn't come. They never come. Two years gone and still, I could not shed a tear for her. What was wrong with me? I made a slow route around the room, drawing in as much of their sadness as I could and silently offering to be the one to hold it all in for them, to feel the weight of loss for them, to give them a moment's reprieve. Such sadness and yet, for me, nothing. I left as I had come, with stealth and beyond the field of vision of anyone in the room. The obit crunched as I fingered it in my pocket. There was another up the street. A woman, age 52, cancer. I was already dressed and ready and hopeful, truly hopeful, that I would find some tears where tears had not naturally come for me two years ago this very week.