There is a bag of belongings in a room. You will find it only if you try. It holds my dreams, some childish, some unfulfilled. The bulb flickers every time it is turned on. There is a mist in the room. I am told it has always been there. Before my existence or my claim. There is a bag of belongings in a room. I suggest not looking if you are just passing by. The breeze is gentle but cold as ice. It comes and goes as a man, not a woman. There is a bag of belongings in a room. The bulb still flickers but keeps the room bright. I go in and out, touching the bag, scared to open what it might reveal. An unspoken love affair, a half-written book, a wrinkled letter, scraps of poems. There is a bag of belongings in a room. I was told not to be too smart, so I left my belongings, collected over the years, telling myself my worth was somewhere else.
Black Coffee and Grey Stories 