I called home. More for myself more than anything, although they seemed worried about me. The things they told me, I couldn't remember and I already knew I could remember blurs of images that were my week. I knew before I made the call I had gone through another black out phase and this Mera person had something to do with it. I sat on the floor in my living room, staring at the crease where the floor meets the wall as my parents; both on the phone retold the horrors of what they went through and what my beloved city went through. I couldn't remember, I had to act like I knew what was going on and I tried my hardest to play the part of the disheveled child. I was but it was for different reasons.

I was beyond happy that my parents were good and safe. With their age, although in their 60's, they were not going to live for forever. To know I could be there for them and I couldn't remember why, for a week had me on edge. My mother informed me that my father needed surgery for a minor health scare but he should be fine and it made me realize the more time goes on, the more weeks I'm going to lose. It may seem like such a small time, but there is guilt to pretend that life is the same or even okay. What's to say that one day I don't get stuck in this coma of an experience and never come out? Will my last conversations I ever have with those I love, leave those people with so many open ended questions?

Arthur the last time we talked; he was dealing with his own thing and feeling like I do on a regular basis. He doesn't need the guilt of taking care of me, he doesn't need the burden of me losing myself for a week at a time. Yes he was going through the same thing but that's just it; I know how he feels. For once I feel like I know all too well what he's going through and then expecting him to take on my issues as well? That is disgusting of me. He's done nothing wrong and I'm forever grateful but where to go from here? If I push him away he deals with that stress, if I let him in on my stress then I run the risk of him imploding.

My life isn't hard like some people. I get it, I'm very lucky to be alive and well in the city I was born in and not have to worry about landmines or where my next meal is coming to or even being woken up in the middle of the night with a military grade gun shoved in my face and men and women separated into different camps and never see or hear about freedom again. A gruesome picture but all things that are currently happening in other parts of the world. I also know I'm lucky enough to have a job that doesn't fire me despite my new pattern of booking off a week last minute.

I'm thankful to be alive right now. I might not be if I hadn't acted quick enough and this little entry would never have been made. My things would have been packed up and thrown out and I would becoming nothing more than a memory people clung to. With time I would be the name brought up to evoke tears or smiles; but I wouldn't be on the forefront of their minds. My face would be hard to remember without looking at pictures and with time and the passing of my parents and the new lives my friends went into I would be forgotten.