There is a certain irony to the autobiographical nature of self-discovery.
Finding yourself lost perhaps is a better way to say it.
I was first. I was last. I was always. Until I wasn’t.
Then where was I?
I still don’t know.
I remember the broken days so vividly. I don’t like that but it’s part of the process I guess.
I remember times and people. And places. Some distant and some very far away.
I used to ask where was I.
Now I ask when am I.
I don’t really know.
At night the dreams take me all over the times I was alive. And even some I was not.
No idea what any of it means anymore.
Shadows and dust.
Waking up in the silence that is four am has its own level of peace.
Maybe that’s the point.
I didn’t go back. And I didn’t fail.
That doesn’t mean I succeeded. So far it just means I didn’t fail.
The pond. How I loved to arrange the rocks in the pond. The way the water would fall and the hallow sound of the echos it would make.
That was a solace I wished I had not lost.
The small furry black beast growling and purring somewhat randomly. That I miss a great deal.
But where did I get lost?
When was that?
It has blurred into so many other thoughts that I don’t know anymore.
Maybe I will wake up and know.
Knowing would be good.
