Dead or Dreaming

I’m putting off writing here the way I do. Waiting for things to settle. But it may be a long time before things settle.

In the meantime, in a kind of limbo, I await final notes from my editor, live in this way-station, my things in storage. My animals are here, too. They are a source of love but also a weight because I can’t leave them, can’t run away.

Maybe I died at some point. Did I die? Trains and more trains. Waiting in dank stations with the depressed human dregs. Waiting to get on and get off. Doe is with me. She peeks through the mesh of her Sherpa bag. You could have done better, Doe, but who would have loved you the way I do? True love comes at such a cost. Sorry to be the one to teach you.

Dead, I wake up again every morning. When do the dead get to rest? I’m searching for a place to live. But the choices are surreal. Yesterday, a massive apartment on the side of a highway. It was being renovated. Am I dreaming? Am I dead?

We walk in strange parks, sit in strange fields. I feed Doe her lunch out of a plastic bag. Yesterday there was the Hudson River, the Palisades, the sound of cars rushing past on the Henry Hudson Parkway. Then a train, and a train, and another train.

Last night, squeezed around the table at the coffee shop, Doe exhausted, sleeping in her bag, disguised as a piece of luggage, my friends smiled and provided temporary comfort and advice. But I am alone in this, and there is no company that can take away this feeling that I am lost.

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