Here I am—a self-professed writer, an enigma of defiance, a lost soul facing another nine, unable to produce a single thought without drifting backward through time to the last time I saw his face or kissed his fading lips. My defiance lurks in the shadows as I attempt to produce words to enunciate my journey of overcoming mediocrity.
Today my journey includes producing a psychological analysis of a prolific author long gone and a glorified comic presenting undertones of Marxism. Seemingly simple tasks for an English major, but not for a soul enduring time’s stagnation during another nine. Trying to explain how a fake Superman presents a domineering patriarchal society as the bourgeoisie proves to be my own kryptonite, at least on this nineteenth day of October. My battle that always begins on the fourteenth of any given month escalates five days later and explodes as I fall three days after until I reach rock bottom of my downward spiral. He has been gone for an excruciatingly long forty-six months today and time does little to lessen the gap his absence leaves.
Here I am—a self-professed writer unable to write, an enigma of defiance lost in mediocrity, a lost soul succumbing to another nine. I am truly an icon of insignificance. I am the embodiment of solitude.
© Relinda R.