LOG; marching ahead to silent beats; TIRA
who : Tira
what : Forgetting.
when : Today.
The pictures and sticky notes mean nothing at first glance, the sheer panic of waking up not knowing who she is over riding all common sense. But eventually Tira, if she is even indeed Tira, forces herself to sit down and overlook the countless notes she has left herself.
She was recently fired from her job as a journalist at the LA Times. This happens every few years. She can dream of the future and the now and she knows when everyone is going to die.
Her elbow knocks into her mug of coffee and the hot beverage spills across the table and a picture of a tall, attractive man with blonde hair. Tira swears and goes over to the front door, where what she believes is her purse is sitting on a small table, and digs through it. Pens, a checkbook, drivers license, credit cards, a small wad of cash, makeup and a pack of cigarettes. All so simple and mundane, but it’s these small things that ground her.
She lights up and takes a long drag of the cigarette, glancing back to the table and the ruined Polaroid picture. She remembers nothing, and no feelings well up in her at the words hastily scribbled on the coffee stained page, but something tells her he might answer questions better than the useless piles of papers she’s left for herself.
what : Forgetting.
when : Today.
The pictures and sticky notes mean nothing at first glance, the sheer panic of waking up not knowing who she is over riding all common sense. But eventually Tira, if she is even indeed Tira, forces herself to sit down and overlook the countless notes she has left herself.
She was recently fired from her job as a journalist at the LA Times. This happens every few years. She can dream of the future and the now and she knows when everyone is going to die.
Her elbow knocks into her mug of coffee and the hot beverage spills across the table and a picture of a tall, attractive man with blonde hair. Tira swears and goes over to the front door, where what she believes is her purse is sitting on a small table, and digs through it. Pens, a checkbook, drivers license, credit cards, a small wad of cash, makeup and a pack of cigarettes. All so simple and mundane, but it’s these small things that ground her.
She lights up and takes a long drag of the cigarette, glancing back to the table and the ruined Polaroid picture. She remembers nothing, and no feelings well up in her at the words hastily scribbled on the coffee stained page, but something tells her he might answer questions better than the useless piles of papers she’s left for herself.