After the insanity of this year, my mind has now quieted a little, and the dust has started to settle, and I can look out of my window to the world outside. I live a little, go out a little, call friends a little, send letters a little, watch movies a little. But I know that I shall always go back, because that is what my heart always tells me to do. Some things take center stage in my memory, some get relegated to the dusty cellars of heart and mind, some waver in the distance like a mirage, while some are entirely forgotten for some reason or other.
This way, time not so much tick-tocks with such numbing regularity, now fast and now slow, now with such intense force, as time, inevitably, moves on.
From time to time
A stranger appears,...
But it's not so much that person,
As it is our interpretation
Of what they can mean to our life.
That makes our throat dry,
Our speech hesitant,
But worst of all,
Makes us so very, very, vulnerable.
- Anonymous
Deeper and deeper shall I go, finding things good and bad, subtle and blatant, awful and profound. I grow more and more confused, yet more and more enlightened. In my mind, thoughts and ideas and memories fly, careening towards each other and ricocheting off, canceling each other out and multiplying. I dig my heels in, hold my hands out for a handhold, and find nothing and everything.
The footprints of my mind would be the very last imprint my thoughts carry, and these thoughts will nevermore see the light of day and shall be lost once more, sealed from the present, but never from my memories. Lost, but not lost -- simply rising to the surface once every hundred years or so, always alive, always aflame in sepia, the color of secrets and regret.
