Monday, October 08, 2012


"All the things one has forgotten scream for help in dreams."— Elias Canetti

In my dream I was screaming. Everyone could hear me, but no one turned around.

I was walking down the same sidewalk I was on May 5, and once more I was thinking of Brazil and the joys I would have found there. Once more I suddenly found myself on the ground, staring into the sky. But there was no sun. It wasn't hot. This time it was night and I was cold, my teeth rat-a-tat-tatting from the frosty air.

I could hear my screams bounce off the nearby apartment buildings, and I saw lights go on. But no one rushed onto a balcony to see. I looked to one apartment, the one I had just left, and saw the lights turn off.

"Please don't go," I shouted, and I saw the mini-blinds being drawn shut.

"I tried. I tried," I said. "I tried my best. I tried everything I had to be a good person, a good friend. What did I do wrong?"

Somewhere far away, I could hear her laugh.

"Please. Please. I know you don't want to hear it, but I love you," I said, crying now, begging now, feeling my left hand curl into a tight first. My fingernails dug into my palm and I saw blood start to drip from my hand. "I know you don't love me. I know I mean nothing to you. But please don't forsake me. There will be time enough to forget me when I'm gone. It's sooner than you think."

Again, the faint sound of laughter. I could feel my legs and face growing numb. My tongue was thick.

"Was I really that bad of a man?"

"Did I deserve this?"

"Will you miss me?"

I closed my eyes and saw her face, and every bad feeling went away. Being forgotten wasn't so bad, after all. At least it meant I was once remembered. And then the black swept over me, and I forgot, too.

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