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A journal entry

It’s not really a story.

A suicide note I’ve written and kept over the years.

I feel like a windup toy, somebody else is making me tick. Lacking any semblance of a stable centre. This is me trying to be me again.

Fighting the uphill battle that is age.

A short tale of new discovery and rebirth.

An open letter from husband to estranged wife.

I sat in a steam room eavesdropping on old men. One of them spoke of going on vacation and my mind filled in the blanks for a poem about it.

I can't decide what I want this to be, but I decided to divide this into story/poem.

I don't recognize my own voice, the lump in my throat grows. My spine curves to the sharp bends in the road. Dead end. She won't love me fore..