Chapin City Blues

Writing is writing whether done for duty, profit, or fun.

It’s not twelve. Not just yet. And I just put down the phone for the night; the girl woman I like has gone to bed. And I’m in the kitchen, getting a drink of water. And as I put the cup in the sink, I pass the refrigerator on which an image of you rests beneath a magnetic frame.

Grandparents PequenoThere are times, when the depression deepens, that you used to visit me in dreams. Where my subconscious took the form of you to reassure or give me advice. It’s been a year since we’ve spoken. Much longer in reality. When I started the antidepressant, everything went silent. The voices stopped. My mind became less clear.

Are you still there? Are you still there? Are you still there?

The echo is cold, dull.

It’s like a toy box, a twirling ceramic ballerina turning inside my skull. A brain on fire. And it slips out from a deep sleep. It yawns. It cracks a smile. And I’ve been running through the subconscious, screaming out for you. Because it’s awake again. And it knows.

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