Memoirs of the Brain-Damaged

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I almost died.

Some people ask if I saw the light; if there was a tunnel?
No, not entirely. There were cracks through which the light shone and then became refracted in a dazzling confusion of color and pain-killers.
Probably purple. Possibly green.

I felt my childhood rupture along an artery… every summertime sprinkler cold on your skin. Every snow day that never ends. When letters were hieroglyphics and you wondered what they meant…

My ancestors were there to greet me. They waited patiently for two hours, ready to receive me in their myriad European tongues.
They dispersed when a surgical drill broke through my cranium.
Consciousness lost comprehension; rushed out of me in blood-cloudy spinal fluid. I can only recall the sun-warm sensation of the peachy pink twilights that you hope to remember.

Memory repeated until it unclotted itself.
My quiet repose was nearly absolute upon sterile sheets, undreaming a short lifetime of misunderstandings, when a cacophony of beeping machinery hearkened my immanent departure.

I was a precarious hovering, a mist threatening dispersion.
Verging on vanish, riding the faint vapor of a final breath, I briefly dissolved only to re-enter myself.
And I can’t tell you why or the hour of my assemblage, just that I know the color of nondescription.

I opened my eyes: light.

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