paperback writer

I've been searching, antsy, itching for something. Somewhere, some words that I could use to put down my feelings for today. But they've been said and said and said. And it's not really enough because eight years later, they're all still dead. And they'll be dead next year too, and what do you say to that?

I don't know; probably not this.

My clearest image, my cleanest image, free from all the panic and the smoke and the grime of those days, those weeks afterward, is of band camp. We were out there, practicing, spinning, playing, and a plane flew overhead. Everything stopped, and we watched. We watched and we waited, and made sure it got safely from one end of the sky to the other. And as the roar of the engine finally, thankfully, faded from our ears, we awoke, looked around sheepishly, and didn't say anything about it. And resumed practice.

I guess that's what we all did/what we're still doing. But it's not the same. Our notes are different now. Some shriller, some mellower, some lost forever. Some invented along the way. But here we are; same band, different song. Different world.

The current mood of bratnatch at
FIN. 11:28 a.m., Friday, Sept. 11, 2009

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A work in Aberration.