Shhhh…

“I hear something,”

“I can’t hear anything..."

Shhhh…

“--listen!”

“Can you see--”

“--that!”

“Oh…..Wait--”

“--it’s gone..”

A dark, rugged, almost disheveled outline

lurks--

--in the corner of my eye.

Perhaps it is a person,

someone... I recognize?

Could it be,

someone I once knew?

Or, maybe it's someone I just can’t seem to place?

That face.. If only I could get a closer look--

--that sharp chin protrudes,

almost... snarkily..

Like its jeering..

...At, (I think), me?

And..

..That walk--

--the way those steps are paced..

One foot after the other, slow yet--

--purposeful (?)

I can’t really tell,

who’s following me?

Whoever it is--

--or, rather, whatever it is

seems to know me.

There’s this feeling,

I can't seem to shake..

You know? Or maybe it’s just me...

It’s indescribable..

It’s like a mask, like the first layer of my face…

As if it’s been peeled back, except--

--it’s not just one mask or just one layer…

Rather, it’s like... I’m bare.

Bare.

Not sure if that actually captures it--

--but it’s a feeling,

of being known..

Of not having any cards to play…

It’s really bugging me..

Who or what is this--

--entity?

(I’m not even sure what to call it, or her, or him..)

Am I special? Is it just following me?

Or does everyone have their own--

--special... friend?

(let’s call it that.)

This special friend seems sinister..

Almost scheming,

waiting, as if to pounce,

on a moments notice..

On who? Honestly...

I think it's waiting for me..

(But, why?)

I look around..

It seems so silent yet--

--not the silence of absence,

rather the silence of hushed tones,

suppressed feelings,

hurt yet veiled emotions..

I look closely..

And maybe it’s just me, but I feel--

--better? Maybe, I mean, just a little,

at least...relatively.

Why this sudden change? Suddenly,

I feel so calm.. (I think…)

I can see.

I can see others..

I mean, more ‘special friends’...

It’s not just me--

--there are so many, and they seem to be--

--I suppose, stuck to every person I see.

Some people, seem to have not one,

but two, two special friends..

Actually, some people seem to be, err,--

--I guess, popular…

I wonder, do I just have one?

Or maybe, there are more,

will they join me?

If I try keep walking..

Let’s see..

I quicken my pace,

I try altering it, taking different paths,

I try to fuse the outline of my special friend with others

(You know? By trying to walk close, and skirt buildings and crowds..)

I start glancing around,

trying hard to be discreet..

I don’t want them to know,

that I’m looking.

(can they see? would they know? I’m not sure

exactly..)

It almost seems like they’re onto me..

It seems I have more..

Or at least, I have grown somewhat of a...

...following (?)

They match my pace,

and seem to encase me..

Or rather, encase my outline..

I actually like this, it’s like.. I have friends..

Real friends, only ones I can see.

It’s strange.. Hmm, let me try think about this, or rather,

about them--

--I need a minute.

(seconds later)

Oh.. bad move.

I try to project my voice, make it loud,

unwavering, fearless…

I don't want them to know. (that…

..I know, I made a mistake.)

“Can anyone hear me?”

I hear echoes...

...echoes of laughs, cries, and shrieks.

I can’t shake it.

I can’t shake them.

My mind. My head, rather, feels…

..heavy, faint, light, rejuvenated, and, honestly,

kind of awake...

But… it hurts,

a lot.

I have no cards to play,

No moves.. Where do I even go?

I can’t go home, I think they’d follow me.

Or maybe they are already there, or others may be there,

you know?

Waiting for me..

I thought this was good, I made peace,

these friends, seem to know me.. they know

my thoughts, my feelings, and...

...actually, I think they can even

hear my heartbeat.

I look around, trying hard to soak in

whatever I can see, I don’t want them to take that

away from me..

Can they do that? (I’m not really sure.. )

I want to wonder, how others feel.

Or how they are coping.. You know?

Like other people, like me..

But. I can’t wonder, I’m scared--

--to think.

To have thoughts, as...

...my mind, it’s exposed. Bare.

They are growing stronger, at least I think.

They have this--

--this, power..

It’s captivating, fierce, and rather compelling.

I can’t resist, really…

...maybe if I stick with it,

it’ll get better?

(minutes later)

Open, bare, exposed--

--land is all I see

in the distance…

..I can’t find my home.

Do I have a home? Or, rather, did I?

I dared to wonder:

Where are all the people?

And...err, ‘special friends’?

I see…

...shadows,

(I think?)

But no people, no special friends,

just shadows.

I look up, and...

...I see clouds, but--

--no sky.

Strange.

But..

..I can hear.

(Like, a lot.. And,

actually all at once. Multiple voices..

Maybe the same echoes from before, those--

--laughs, cries, and shrieks)

It seems so distant, yet so close,

to me, you know?

(I mean, they, the shadows, they seem so distant

yet close, to me, physically..)

But, I can’t seem to get close enough,

It’s like they’re special.

Aloof, but somewhat above..me

(?)

They seem organized, like more than, err--

--you know, people?

Like they’re in sync.. Their thoughts and bodies are..

..one.

Dare I think: they are happy (?)

But.. how? So exposed, so bare,

so…. Singular...

(I guess maybe they seem so independently singular,

yet, err--they're... a unit, you know? The way they..

..operate (?))

(hours later)

It dawns on me…

I, too, am one of them.

I look down, I see..

..a dark outline and a stark cast of gray shades, projecting

onto flat gravel. I, too, have been

consumed.

If writing is a dying, worthless art, then I'd go as far to say that everything derivative of traditional pen-and-paper writing is just as meaningless. The art of writing persists because we have no other way of interacting with each other. Two of the biggest forms of media that still dominate our culture, movies and music, is entirely dependent on good writing, and both persist when they possess good quality writing. The longer they persist, the more impactful they are on our culture and the more easily we're able to express ourselves. Expression is really what writing is powered by, after all. Frankly, if writing was dead, so we would be too.

I want to preface this by saying I love bread. All kinds. There is no such thing as a sandwich without bread and to not have sandwiches...well, I don't even want to imagine that world.

All that being said, I think, and correct me if I'm wrong, that the expression "this is the best thing since sliced bread" gives sliced bread a little too elevated of a status.

I'm sure people used to be pissed when they had a loaf of bread and had to just yank pieces off. I get it. No "slice" would be even, can't make a proper sandwich, etc. I'm sure that when the first loaf came sliced, people picked up their pitchforks and tried to find the witch or sorcerer that was responsible for such magic.

But now? Does it really measure up? If we cure cancer, are doctors going to be saying "curing cancer is the greatest thing since sliced bread!" When Neil Armstrong told the story of how he walked on the moon is it followed up by..coolest thing since sliced bread. I don't know...just seems a bit lacking in comparison. Even toasted bread might mean more.

It's a debate that will probably rage on now that I'm lighting that fire...I only bring the question not the answer. I AM going to go make a mean sandwich right now though...which, of course, would not be as satisfying or maybe even possible without....well, you know.