p1020453I’m trying to throw all my old things away, but every time I start, I stop and read a book or sit and stare at the wall.  It’s not that I have anything holding me here.  It’s that no matter what happens, I have nothing to move in to.  My direction has turned and is pointed inwards now, diving down to a place I cannot point to.

I’ve traveled nowhere and everywhere.  I’ve not seen so many things.  I’ve been the adverse of experience, taking the opposite seat from knowledge.  I know this because it has never made me cringe.  I’ve been right there with it on the other side of the wall, pressing my ear against it in order to hear, feeling countless words, all meaning the same thing.  In fact, I’ve become an instillation of myself.

When I was a child, I had visions rather than dreams.  I didn’t know I was supposed to be looking forward and to my recollection, nobody guided my sight.  No fault applied.  I’m simply stating what I believe is fact.  This attribute has grown into a haunting characteristic I feel on my chest when I wake.  It is the largest thing of me.  So I could say to myself that I’m just stubborn, but it’s more like an infection that has grown with the rest of me.

And see, even here you can see it in these lines.  I’ve written stories like these most of my adult life and to the outside it must seem like nonsense.  In fact, it’s nonsense to me as well, on some level.  It defies what I know about human nature.  But human nature is an inconceivable thing and exists only on the same level as money or real estate.  This hasn’t always been the case, but it’s the case now.  So it seems that maybe I was born in the wrong time and into a displaced life.

And so the installation persists and my mind slowly pulls itself away and looks backs, as if I were my own museum.  This is what age does.  It slowly moves the mind away from the host.  A glacier breaking away from itself and drifting back.


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