A Conversation with Myself (During a Migraine)

Legs restless, feet tapping, hands wringing then running through hair, twisting, grabbing.

 
Press palms to eye, keep it from escaping.

 
Nothing works, it keeps coming. Why won’t it stop?

 
Distract yourself, do something, do anything.

Can’t think.

It’s trying to worm its way out of your skull. Stop it!

 
Why won’t it stop?

Breathe, try to breathe. Control it. I know it doesn’t work, do it anyway! It’s your body, you’re in charge. Fight it dammit!

Get up, it’s obviously not going away. Take something. Drown it. Kill it. Distract yourself until it works.
It’s going to work, it has to work. If it doesn’t you’ll eventually go insane.

 
Shut up.

 
This time is no different. You can beat it, you always beat it.

 
Every time feels like the first time. Can’t hold onto the pain.

 
Don’t want to.

 
No, but the memory might be helpful.

 
Doesn’t matter. You remember winning, that’s enough.

 
I suppose so, but it doesn’t make it easier.

 
Who ever said life was easy?
Suck it up. Just breathe.
Now stop writing and stick your head in hot water. The heat helps.
See I can be helpful.

 
Shut up.

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A Table for Two (two stories)

A World Apart

A woman sits alone in a coffee shop at a table for two. Humanity passes by her, life happening in a sea of strange faces. She sits apart, part of this world but not, and she watches. Does she wish she were over there with the group of old friends talking and laughing about old times over their cups? Or perhaps with the young family doting over their small children as if they were the most important thing in the world? Does she wish to join the sea of life swirling about her? But perhaps she is content to remain apart, a silent watcher outside of time and the flow of predictable humanity. Passerby’s judge her from the safety of their comfortable worldviews. But who are they to judge the content of her inner life? She sits alone, a world apart, but don’t we all?

He Waits

A man sits alone at a table for two. He waits for him. Life passes by outside the confines of his table. People meet, come together, and part again. Time moves on but he does not. Some notice him and wonder, but most pay no heed to the old man. He does not belong in their worlds, is not worth notice in their busy live. He does not notice them either, there is only room for him and the love he waits for. The love that will never come, can never come, taken by hatred and fear from this life. And still he waits.