WRITING: Experience

Some time around four a.m. I fell through time. Deja vu in future tense, I feel at home within the skin surrounding what I’m guessing is a soul. Or maybe just a mind that is a four-drawer vertical filing cabinet that squishes invisibly fitting in the furrows of a brain. Poke it with a probe, it sings; harder, it will cry. Memories are all together in one place with subfolders and strange labels: Good Experience, Bad Times, Corners Never Peeked Around, Slippery Slopes, and Thin Ice. Within are more divisions, maybe Never or If The Chance Comes Around Again. The drawers themselves, I notice now, are labeled too: Normal, Warp Speed, Just Get Through, and Don’t Go There. Shall I dig in, elbows deep, and read?