Long time, Finding Me

Some day, perhaps, I will be brilliant in my writing, but for now all brilliance was lost with the year.  2011, the year my spirit was crushed.  “Spirit was crushed” or “crushed spirit” is a phrase I have never used.  Odd how many phrases I know but have never used out loud or on paper.  And I suppose one day paper shall be a rarity, enjoyed only by the rich.  Think of it, a medium where the word stays, fixed, unchanged by governments and corporations.  One hundred years from now one would be better off in a second world country, or at least what then shall be considered one.  Fewer crushed spirits there then.  I will reincarnate backwards.  I will go in reverse in order to move forward.  I will look outwards in order to go inwards.  I am the superman of opposites like on that movie with the guy and his shovel.  I’m always forgetting mine.  And yes, for the record I am sober.

How do you see it?  This thing called life.

Who am I?  I have always asked myself that question.  I have never been confused about it.  Lost.  I suppose I’m not now.  I am in a state of “I do not know”.  Someone wise would say this is the “wise” place to be.  I believe both are probably just fine.  Can an enlightened man become anxious?

I have recently had inklings of past lives.  Echoes.  Something about being in Saint Louise or whatever that town is, the one with the arch, but long before the arch.  I’ve always thought it ghastly, but not me, that someone else that is me.  He or she was traveling.  Out west.  Out West.  And then there was that young woman changing from a girl into the fancier dress and customs of her people.  What people and where?  India or thereabouts it seems.  Why I don’t remember those lives is fairly obvious to me now.  Why would I remember this one now?  When I wake some mornings I would rather simply forget it.  There is nothing of note, even my achievements seem trivial compared to a sunset.

I wanted to write something meaningful, something to save the world.  I can barely write a paragraph in a day.  Now.  This, so far, has taken me three days.  It seems pointless.  Pressing down small cubish pieces of plastic in a certain order to create some semblance of meaning which will change the moment you read this, if you read this, do I want you to read this, do I care?  It’s not that I care or don’t care.  It’s not a positive or a negative attitude.  It’s not much of one anymore.  I’d just rather be walking the dog.  And so that is what I will do.

I once offered myself to you.

Never again.

Maybe.

-a