Sometimes I am awake. Sometimes I am dreaming.
Sometimes I say, “you’ll have to excuse him, he’s dead.” Sometimes I say, “you’ll have to excuse me, I’m dreaming.” Sometimes I say, “you’ll have to excuse me, I’m dead.”
One time my brother sat next to me on a train and defended my choices to strangers and kept me company in a yellow t-shirt and glasses. He was dead, but I had to excuse him. One time he came to my apartment in the middle of the night, dressed in black, and banged on the window and whispered to be let in. He was alive and I excused him. One time he left dirty clothes, red, black and green, all over the floor and I had to clean up. I was dead and no one excused me. One time he was dressed in black and would not say a word to me. He was dead and I couldn’t excuse him. One time I broke my brother’s glasses in a fight under a yellow and white polyester afghan. I was barely excused, but he was alive.
Now I dreaming and more alive than dead. I find that there are no more excuses for me, and no one left to dispense of my burden.
This will be the case for a long time.