TIny forks. Fairy tale eating utensils which would ring true once it was believed that each furcation could taste the melody and come to agreement. Or at least to agree to disagree is a juncture where sound communicates between the ears in both worlds.
I held the fork unsteadily in my right hand. This was the nth tooth on a comb of disagreements I’d embarked upon making with myself in the maelstrom. Bit by bit I was being reassimilated, but it would seem my disabilities lay too rooted to prune or exorcise.
Compartmentalisation they call it.
Can I declare that I was fooled or under the influence of some sort of stupefying stultifying stuttering error in the transmission? A fault in the telomeres or the blinking of a carrier on their first shift?
Isolated for God knows how long was another assumption I didn’t agree to bridge until just now.
My body felt stiff. I had been thankful for the change of clothes; last night I grappled with the cast plastered over my left arm, undoing my dignity to use a bottle to urinate. Alone. And without glasses. Three strikes at once.
Tiny Forks. When my parents brought me a set of glasses a few weeks later I remarked about the flowers. I had thought the flora was faked and the birdsong piped. It only took a small win for the Grown ups to inform me that the green grass was indeed artificial. I kept silent about the beds. And memory continues to bathe in the waters without me fully there yet.
I’m not looking back. I’m singing to you from the other side.