I can feel it.
Ticking,
Counting down the seconds,
Minutes, hours,
Days, weeks,
Years, decades
Of the minor insignificant preamble to death that is my life.
I am responsible for this bomb.
I built the entire thing myself.
I let them fool me.
I let them play with my mind,
As if it were a ball being carelessly kicked and tossed
Through a field of lies and victimization.
I am the victim of my own bomb.
The only one strapped to it.
Trying day after day to escape its fatal clutch,
Yet clinging to it with dear life.
I need the bomb.
It gives me hope.
Hope that this will all be over.
Hope that none of this really matters,
That life is nothing but a preparation for death.
I hate the bomb.
It creates fear in me.
Fear that I am but a minor proton in the body of the world.
Fear that I am the target of all of humanity’s evil.
It makes me forget why I am here,
Why I keep going on every day.
I forget about my bomb squad.
I forget about all the things diffusing my bomb.
I forget to seize the day
And decrease the weight of other people’s bombs.

I wake up.
New York.
It’s cold enough to where my body succumbs to the cool sensation sweeping it externally, but not too bitter to where I begin internal frostbite. One man tells me to go back to bed, it’s too early. I slowly, silently, drift off into a doze.
I wake up.
Havana, Cuba.
It is now summer. I see a boy. He looks confused. I offer him help. Without a word he turns around and scurries off down the alley into a small wooden shack, like a mouse, assuming everyone is the sinister cat that is out to feast upon his flesh, running into his safe haven, his hole in the wall. I go back to bed.
I wake up.
Sicily, Italy.
It is now spring. One bird catches my attention. A dove, flying through the channels, under the bridges, over the buildings. It swoops through almost all of Sicily, and then hovers over the calm waters of the Mediterranean Sea as it makes its great escape, the wind scraping up against its delicate white feathers, applying pressure to its already soaring wings. The dove heads back for land, to its nest. It hits a tree. I go back to bed.
I wake up.
Melbourne, Australia.
It is now autumn. I see one woman. She tells me her name, although I could not make it out with such a rich, thick accent. But, what are names? They aren’t identity. You strip someone of a name and they are still unique. It’s not the name that defines a person, it’s what they make of it. Another woman catches my eye. She doesn’t tell me her name, but instead shows me around town. We begin to talk when all of a sudden I drift off into a doze.
I wake up.
New York.
It is winter. It’s cold enough to where my body succumbs to the cool sensation sweeping it externally, but not too bitter to where I begin to develop internal frostbite. One woman informs me that I’m late for work. I notice an accent. I ask her where she’s from. She replies,
“Melbourne, Australia.”

When the rain falls
The sun will rise
But the trees won’t grow at all

Brother calls
Sister cries
When the rain falls

We grow tall
We inch closer to our demise
But the trees won’t grow at all

Our emotions brawl
Our heart sighs
When the rain falls

We can stall
All of our strength can arise
But the trees won’t grow at all

Our backs against the wall
There is no prize
When the rain falls
But the trees won’t grow at all

There it stands. Weeping, moping. Like the lone ranger secretly longing for a partner. It is the epitome of the lonely soul. We all know this tree. We have all seen it. It is the kid that never gets picked on any teams when the other kids play sports. It is the man who sits alone knowing he cannot return to normality because he lost everything he ever had. He is the one in the corner, praying for a better life. Just trying to slip through the days as quickly as possible. Constantly craving care and compassion. Craving for a companion. Wanting to laugh, shout, scream. But all he can do is weep. For he is the weeping willow, hoping one day his long, drooping face will be swept up by the wind, and he can become a tall, proud pine tree. That day will come. And it will be a beautiful one.

What happens when we die?
I’ll leave that unanswered.
Our inner self moves on
to another shell, like a hermit crab.
But where does our shell go?
Does it cover up another hermit crab
without a shell?
No.
We end up in the ground.
Decomposing,
our skin grows cold
And eventually grows mold.
Yet some people feel the need
to decorate the hole that holds
the rotting corpse
they were once
very much a part of.
A tower.
A house.
A life-size replica.
A cross the size of the one
that once held Christ.
And for what purpose?
You can polish a carcass
but it’s still a dead body.