revised: the comfortable and the worn inMature

I collect these images, these fragments of other lives, other people, other thoughts, and gather them together; I line them up and roll my eyes across their stories over and over; in the morning, before I sleep, between meals, while my husband snores.  These little fragments nothing more than breadcrumbs through my life.  Pieces of a life I'd never been prepared to live, but one I never stopped searching for.  Vicariously, I live through them.  My little collection of lifetimes I've never survived, of troubles and sadnesses that fill my bones like ghosts seeking their home shores.  I am the lighthouse for memories never made to find a quiet resting place; the anchor dropped into the deep, aphotic sea to keep the wanderer from drifting too far off his own map, that drags the whole ship beneath the unforgiving waves.

The End

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