Death waits for us behind closed doors. It sits patiently for our arrival with a cup of tea or maybe coffee. Maybe with a book. There is no such thing as lateness when it comes to death.

He was a farm boy; skin forever tanned a copper gold. He didn’t have an education. He spent his childhood tending to crops and carrying heavy loads of firewood, water, fertilizer, and so on. He wasn’t much of a speaker, though his caramel-colored eyes often spoke for him.

He was no taller than 5’2”. His hair never greyed despite being in his eighties. He walked with a curved back and spoke in a raspy whisper. He died on the arrival of Spring. He continues to live in my memories.

Death steals everything except our stories.

The night gives rise to my demons.

For the past twenty-something years, I’ve been on a delusional journey of self-discovery; a journey intended to end with a better sense of self under a positive light: who I am or was, why I behave or behaved so, where I come from, where I am, and where I’m headed. I make vows that promise self-improvement for the greater good and greater awareness of others; being less of a shadow and more of a guiding light.

Unfortunately, reflections that haunt the silence of the night have only revived my demons. I can see them when I close my eyes and I can hear their intruding voices every time I think or speak.

I’m afraid I found comfort here though, alone and apathetic. In this void that has only grown in every attempt to better myself for the sake of myself and for the sake for others.

I’m sitting alone in Grand Central on an old deteriorating wooden bench. I wonder how old it is. How many people have sat here alone like myself or with a friend, a relative, or a lover. I wonder how many of them were confused tourists and how many simply had no home to go back to, no bed to sleep on, and no family to confide in. Were they reading newspapers? Books? Magazines? Or did they opt to stare off into space? Or did they write like me… Or did they look over the shoulder of the person who chose to write.

Like you, sir, huffing and puffing into my scalp.

A train stops in front of me and bodies shuffle around, eventually becoming a wall of blurry intertwined legs and muffled voices.

I’m sitting alone in Grand Central on an old deteriorating wooden bench, writing and listening to a lone saxophone crying in the background; its wailing songs can break the coldest of hearts.

I wonder how many others have done the same.

Fingertips tap away on keys, pause, read over. Add some words, take out others. Delete.

I could’ve written a novel rivaling that of literary classics or an essay lasting for pages. Ticking and tacking on keys, ink dribbling, scribbling and scratching on paper; I could’ve avoided a lot of misfortune if I had used my voice at that given moment instead of my hand when the events become a part of the past. But I simply can’t convey myself well enough or thorough enough to make you understand me.

I never do enough. The energy exerted in my efforts to satisfy are pitiful and faint. I’m never enough. I have to try harder. I want to. I have to. Want. Have. I—

I rest my forehead into the curve that connects—yet separates—my thumb and index finger.

I appear to be at a loss for words, but that itself is nothing new.