False Anatomy

There are whole rooms filled with parts of wholes and wholes who want to be taken apart again. 

You would be wanting to know, they say the same things day after day. With abyssopelagic eyes, they toss conversation pieces around the room, barely touching each one, playing a schoolyard game with empty words. How little they know; each fingerprint they leave only draws them closer to explosions of meaning, the very ones we all plan on missing. 

I’ve wasted two days in this place, facing a certain sort of cessation, the one where I may have to leave this path altogether. 

I hate the word “doomed”. The ring, the very sound of it, a hard “d” followed by those inelegant “o’s” grinding to a halt at a final “d”. A word that brings me back to a time where death was a joke. 

But I could search my mind for hours; “doomed” is the only way I can describe this place.