i was reading an article, the other day, about the way in which our brains find patterns in random bits of information. like seeing the virgin mary in a piece of toast. i’m thinking about that article for some reason while his answer to the question – how long you been out here? – unfolds, folds, and unfolds again. every word dripping with delusion and malt liquor. the governor, his doctors, the cops who all know his name, his mother (may she rest in peace), the landlord who took his keys, his sister who stole money, the banks, the shelters, the sociology professor who taught him lies, the sinners, the saints, and god himself. they all had a hand in his fate. and he didn’t realize it was all connected until now when he said it all out loud. right this minute. because no one had ever shut up long enough to hear him out. i don’t remember what that brain phenomenon is called – something that starts with a “p” i think – but we all do it. we’re wired that way to survive in a world hell bent on killing us. i tell him i’ll be back tomorrow to talk some more – a risky promise with the future always so uncertain. uncertain for most people, that is. i just remembered what the word is.

B. Dixon is an emerging writer and licensed counselor living in Salem, MA. His writing has been published in J Journal, Boston Literary Magazine, Buddhist Poetry Review, Star 82 Review, and Unbroken Journal and will be featured in an upcoming issue of Main Street Rag. His micro-chapbook, Insomnia, was recently published by the Origami Poems Project and can be downloaded on their website.

See more of his work in 8.3

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