A feather's touch, ice cold, chilling grip around his throat. He crumbles to his screams and cries that eat away at his mind. A self constructed end. He invites death to his door and as a parting gift, his soul. The next day, I'm encased by tears and banshee-like cries, yet not one tear breaks from my eyes, dry they stay. Mother, sister, family; they all break, but I stay motionless, unmoved. I hear, "You're strong, you're so strong." In my head I say no, just a mask, chiseled when eyes look upon it. I pay my respects to this motionless stranger. "Not him", I repeat to myself, "Not him." He now becomes one with the earth. Ash to ash, dust to dust. Alone, the mask dissipates, the dam breaks and a waterfall is born. I remember the motionless stranger, and I can't help but to think, "Was it a mirror, was it me in that Box?" But here I stand, alive, yet still motionless, a piece of my heart along with him.
