#mr splitfoot

I am more lost from the world than anyone has ever been. More lost than people who lived here before here had a name. Those people understood stars. The still felt north in their bodies. I don’t have any idea what happened to north. My life so far has made me stupid, helpless, dependent. I am not like the people who came before. They knew how to feed themselves, how to give birth by squatting in the roots of a tree. They were lost, but lost didn’t matter back then, since there was no found. They could wander these woods before tribes, before people even. Following deer or bears or who knows what. The sort of lost that doesn’t exist anymore anywhere.

Because every story is a ghost story, even mine.

Why do the living assume the dead know better than we do? Like they gained some knowledge by dying, but why wouldn’t they just be the same confused people they were before they died?

These woods are where silence has come to lick its wounds.

With one feral animal eye, I see him, heavyset, raised wildly, still wearing his dark sunglasses. His sports jersey makes me loathe all sports, all teams. His mind is not right.

These woods are where silence has come to lick its wounds.

Why do the living assume the dead know better than we do? Like they gained some knowledge by dying, but why wouldn’t they just be the same confused people they were before they died?