paper weight

she felt lighter. not as if the burden on her shoulders had been lifted, but light in a way where something is missing. it's that feeling you get when you walk out the door but you can't put your finger on what you had left behind. she didn't feel stable. the paper weight her body now endured would easily be scooped up by the merciless winds. struck by grief and tangled in confusion, she walks the streets panting and sweating, dreaming and shouting. her silent ailments haunt her, and phantoms of the past engulf her mind into memories and voices of the only pure, selfless person she knew.

she fears her lack of a strong ability to retain her own history, and she cries for not being able to revisit her past and indulge in the comfort of beauty. she is afraid to forget the voice that subtly calms her. the voice of an individual who rose above her own standards of life and love and liberty. she tries to write down how she feels but she is overwhelmed by the looming, inevitable event: she will forgot. it happened once and it's happening again. it starts with the scent. then the face. then the voice. and soon her aunt will only be a memory that no sensual pleasure can awake. no.

she tries to grab hold of the spinning world, but she fails. nothing beats the slow ticking of the hands on a clock, and her emotions cannot catch up with the world that is so ready to forget. she carries a picture with her while the rued departed rest in the limbs of the earth. she can only imagine what they remember.

at night, she flies with the phantoms, and during the day, she holds their hands. though afraid the phantoms will leave her, she carries a picture and a picture will mend.

t.tran