So it’s almost 2am local time and my brain is defiantly kicking around ideas. It started with me thinking about climbing attic stairs as a way to step back in time, and then rest of it just flowed to point that it seemed like a good idea to write it out so that I wouldn’t lose it by morning.
The last diary There is a ladder to my attic. The climb up takes me back in time to dwell once more amongst the forgotten remnants of what was, and what could never be. I find a shoe box full of the static shells of people staring at me from polaroids, their false smiles more faded than the last time. I move on, in search of what I am really looking for. It holds papers from last century and an old diary. I want to see again what she saw, and hear her voice inside my head, speaking to me in the way that only she knows. She is a twin sister to me now: connected but also her own entity. I have told her stories but I need to hear her tell me again. I want to know if she saw the world the way I see it now. Did she notice the connections and signs that may have foretold the future? Or was she as blind as I am now? Amongst all the forgotten artefacts and dust I cannot find her. Somehow the last known recordings in her own hand have dissipated into the mists of time like the echoes of lost love. I descend the ladder back into current time and the mourn the person I used to be.
Angele Toomey Poetry 