Casey Gilfillan

I am disoriented by it all. The forced commonality, the severe tragedy juxtaposed like an unsheathed dagger against my throat. The ivory skin of my neck against the glossy shimmer of death, the silver tongue is urged to take a slice. I am to keep going, proceed forth as though I am free to advance. It is here where the aphasia grabs ahold, a tremor with the consistency of molasses wraps individually around each limb and piece of me. My feet are anchors, weighted bricks entrenching me to a muted pace and in this, I find myself wondering about the outstretching manner of my arms, the momentum of my desire, and the inertia maintained by circumstance. The dagger gleans, tracing softly not with threat but foreshadowed presence. Here is the path I will take, it matters not if I move or stay.