A European man who spoke in a Spanish accent told me this would happen. He told me no less than a few hours before it all came crashing down. He said through my own faults I would lose this all. I barked back at him remarking on external references that could only attribute to this devastation. He shook his head and maintained his stance, YOU will lose this Jay. I got pigheaded and emotionally land locked, there is no way I would ever squander that, which matters most. My disbelief consumed me but he smugly reassured time and time again. I smugly asked just who he thought he was. He explained simply that he was the architect of the death of things. Every time something died in my life he was there to speak the words and drive the conscious engine. He was the hearse to my emotions. He was essentially the reaper. Even with his ominous credentials I still didn’t believe such horrors could be true.I had made promises. I was not going to go that route. I was not going to be that guy. Surely this was just some eccentric pilfering my emotions with salt.

As much as I regarded my haunting experience as pure bull shit an edge of terror kept me teetering. Every comment barked at me was amplified by this resonance attaching itself to the rationalization process. I could feel the wind whipping at my legs as the edge began to crumble.

I’m five years old again and have no idea how to behave in the store. I’m throwing a tantrum inside ripping on every emotion within. My hands tense up and fidget in my pockets as any given moment autonomy could take over and I’d plummet to the ground. Clean up on aisle five. The shoppers milling around me are oblivious to the explosion and devastation apparent in these cerebral confines.

My face is panic. My face is hate. My face is hurt. My face is love. I don’t know what combination of environment procured such a though pattern, but I found myself at ground zero. Deep voices within began aiding reassurance hoping to remedy the extreme nature of what had happened. The entire place was flooding and they frantically tried to fortify the dikes. Their omnipotent nature was futile against this bellowing cataclysm.

My face is panic. My face is hate. My face is hurt. My face is love. The automatic systems are still online and I find a way to meander myself through crowds feeling stranger with every pass. I was told to be distant but this felt like deserted solitary.

My face is panic. My face is hate. My face is hurt. My face is love. I see the object of affection from across the room. Approaching slowly I can feel my face again. It’s doing funny things. It’s not smiling. It’s not frowning. It is searching deep inside me for a motor manual on what expression to manifest. My mind knows which expression it wishes to use. My mind has an entire catalogue of emotions I can wear for this being. Reflections for the extreme happy to the extreme sad and all the cracks to fill in between. I’ve been standing there for a lifetime in terms of computational brain clock standards. I have no idea how to act? I have no idea what I’m supposed to do. I’m supposed to wear one of these costumes but which one. The one costume I’ve tried on a million times in hopes of wearing it one day doesn’t even fit. Who am I?

Literally, who the fuck am I? I’m confused now and leave. I stumble down darkened streets trying to rationalize EVERYTHING. What is simple. What is difficult. What is tangible. What is futile.

So who am I? I’m certain I know within. To the outside manifest? Not a hot clue. Give me time before I tread in your world. For my protection, not yours.