Processors Overloaded

You hear that sizzling sound? No, not the beep. The quiet, fizzing noise coming from somewhere nearby. That's me. That's my sound. My processors have overloaded. I can't think straight. Or see straight. Or understand what hit me. I'm dead. I've died and left you all. Who knows when I'll be back and if I do make it, how much of me there will really be.

Will I ever be okay?

No. I won't. I will never be okay again.

Death is a scar that doesn't heal. The Acholi people know this. The children know this. Harry Potter knows this. Patrick Jane knows this. I know this. I will never lose this scar.


Wrath mingled with fear and grief.
Helplessness got into the basket of hope.
Action is stamping its feet on the basket.
And death is measuring rope.
Rope lined with glass for cutting, slicing.
Slicing of cuts far too deep.
Hope cries out, but for weeping.
All full up of secrets it can't keep.
Heartstrings are torn and forgotten.
Very little and few left to play.
But the music's sad song rolls on.
And love lifts up hope today.
And love lifts up hope today.






I promise, there'll be an explanation soon. I just can't handle it all right now. It's too close. No one died if that's what your wondering. At least, no one I can name and touch and feel. I also promise this isn't a suicide note or anything. Eventally normal makes room for life's turns. Eventually.