Sleep.  I vaguely recall how good it felt to lie down, release your body of conscious control and let your mind sort of stumble around on its own as you dreamt of, well, whatever you wanted without wanting.

What I don't remember anymore is the last time I actually slept.  Too much time.  Too much life.  Too much history has transpired.

Even someone (something) such as me cannot retain such experiences forever.

In the beginning there were many ambitions and desires, regrets, fears, to be faced and satisfied.

The freedom of eternity allows you to be both angel and devil, over and over again, until you have your every last wanton notion and desire has been experienced.  Decadence, depravity.  Humility, noble acts of selflessness.  You commit them all: acts of intense kindness and the deepest sadistic behavior.

And when you arrive at the proverbial end of your inner dreams manifested, all without consequence or accountability, you reach the place where I found myself, oh so long ago.

The changes occurred even as I, still a mortal man, relished each thing in which my heart chose to revel and experience.

Damn, but you are persistent, aren't you?  Sitting there, forgotten cigarette burning itself to oblivion in the half-full ashtray just within arm's reach to keep the smoke out of your scrutinizing eyes.

Very well.  Perhaps this is your role in my fate: the unintentional witness.

Do not think for a moment I will divulge all that I am to you.  Ha! Already thought it, didn't you?  Pretty prsumptuous, if you ask me.

There's no point in sharing such weighty concepts with the likes of you.  You will not live long enough to understand them.  And even if you manage to comprehend something of the Why, it will be like discovering there is true Magic, to be wielded by a chosen few, and you are not among them.

I'll save you the bitterness of such things.

I will ponder something aloud, for your benefit -- I'm in a magnanimous mood -- and in doing so I may discern a nuance of some detail I may have overlooked.

There was a man I needed to undo just a few days ago.  And I did undo him.  But an anomaly occurred, one I did not anticipate or expect.

His daughter was not to be allowed to exist; she was not to be else dire...annoyances be allowed to come to fruition.

His wife entered as he un-became.  She screamed.  A small matter; once history corrected itself and all that she witnessed will not have been.

But her daughter came into the room.

Most unexpected.  She should have un-become with the father's undoing.

Perhaps the mother was a cheating woman, **** another, carrying his child.

I undid her as well, before her daughter's shocked eyes.

I waited to see that the girl un-became, which she did.

The house where they lived began to alter and change as I left it.

A boy that was with the daughter walked on ahead of me with the wooden inanimate visage of living matter being ... re-purposed to new events, to new history.

I stood at the curb and watched the change finish its cycle.

An older man appeared from the front door wearing shorts and a stained t-shirt.

He carried a small step-ladder and a bucket of paint and brushes.

I turned and left him to go on about his business, what ever it may have been.

Things have been occurring that have me intrigued.

At first I deemed them insignificant:
That genocidal old bitch uttering my name.
This woman-child not un-becoming with her father's undoing.

And just last night, that wretch of man I bumped into on the street.

I am for all intents as anonymous as can be.  On the bus the mass that is my body fails to attract the most bored of eyes; they slide past me and look at other things.

I interact with people. I buy things.  Yet even then some part of them shuns my existence from their minds, with an almost aggressive intent to remain ignorant of my coming or going.

Except, when I undo them.  To acknowledge me directly is to become undone.

Their sins are not forgiven.  Their most heart-felt apologies are for naught.  In the end they cease to be, as do every action, thought, and emotion that impinged events on this world.

So why forgive what wasn’t. Ever.

How dare you!  Compare me to the so-called Grim Reaper.

That self-invoked folklore by men with small minds and fearful of all that they do not understand is but a sham.

There are...things, of the Here, of this world...and not, that can be construed godly.

Me? I abide them.  And I don't.  It is determined by other things, yet.

No. I will not tell you more.  At least not yet.

First I will have to dwell on these little mysteries of the past few days.

That scrawny bastard last night.  I saw him walking toward me bags of groceries in his arms.

When he looked at me he stopped in his tracks his bags of groceries falling to his feet; broken jar of pickles permeating the air between us with vinegar.

His face plainly showed that he...recognized me from some place.

To see the skin pale to almost bloodless white is a sight to behold; I could not help but find amusement in his reaction.

What was it he babbled before he bolted?  Ah, yes, I am "...the one who is and should not be...” as he put it.

Sounds poetic.  Perhaps he is a writer of some kind. Verbose as he was terrified.

Enough of this banter.  I have a small journey I must undertake.  A convention of politicians looms in the near future -- I have to laugh at that: near future.

Much work to do.  Much, so much to fix.

So much...for redemption.