MonthJuly 2013


They’re stacked atop another. They’re aligned from end to end. They’re left haphazardly on the floor with other messes. They seem bruised and bent, but they’ve remained unread. Books that I’ve amassed from here and there over time but haven’t quite bothered with yet. Though the intention was once there.

Now they lie around as receipts for my intentions. An IOU of sorts. I owe them my time. Yet I amass these receipts as if I would live forever. I keep making hundreds of promises to myself that physically collect as I ignore them. I will not live forever. I will leave these owed intentions behind.

That thought scares me.

When we say “rest in peace,” we’re not speaking to the dead. We’re speaking to ourselves.


My nephew runs into my room, climbs unto my bed and rests his head on my shoulder.

“We are just breathing and doing nothing,” he says.

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