Where do I stand? Now, days out from New Years, on the cusp of the entry into my 31st year; needing a thesis; hoping for answers to questions I have already forgotten the likes of by the time I've gotten to the end of this sentence. Clearly, having a point or meaning is valuable to me at this point. But why when I am so apt to consecrate the process, do I stammer, stumble, shutter and slip. I walked blocks of Manhattan on Saturday, knowing, as I meandered the street blocks back to my temporary abode, that these moments, and the warmth of the late December weather, were fleeting at best; less tangible objects to be cradled beneath my arms, to relative obscurity to those around me, nestled deep in my chest maintaining some grasp on them, like holding one's breath to the point of...I dig in to these thoughts much deeper now, realizing even my skin is slinking itself off daily, from lips, from scalp, hands, palms, knees; at which point am I shed of my next me, is my anaconda shell flaked and disposed of like an innocuous shell in human shape, to be discovered by some National Geographic commentator, speaking in low, drab english accent, unseen, but present.
I am who I am, it is what it is, and so it goes. When am I not who I am; when does it cease to be it any more? Am I really who I am; is it really what it is? I studied Plato in college, and the Platonic forms, pure intentions of what something should be, or aim to be. A chair is a chair that it serves its function, holds itself to utmost perfection of chair-ness. So to am I an object, but my -ness is ever evolving, or that is what I am told, or telling myself here. Then it appears, in my estimation, that lacking that knowledge of what I am supposed to aspire to, trying to fit my specific shape into multiple pegs, for a chance that it might fit, this trial and discovery could yield a failed life-long attempt at finding my place...Cut to: time running out, buzzer ringing, stage floor opening to an empty abyss, and me debating the two fates, limitless expanse of space falling, or swooped from the stage by vultures moving in.
So in a few hours, less 31 years, I breached to this world, a force to be reckoned with, if just from my mother's womb, then positioned lowest in a chain I could not even conceptualize, feebly in the lowest of the pecking order, to weak and small and frail to hold up my own neck, needing the warmth of a blanket, hospital's sterile environs, incubation and then, through infancy, to toddler, cooped in a green laundry basket, thick plastic, woven and sharp, limited give, round and protecting. I recall little of my birth, as most don't, but recall reality piercing in, many anniversaries later, like bright pillars from a distance, awakening from me, the senses inside, like subtle sirens cast towards me in circular repetition, growing less subtle in their vicious cycle of sonic reverberation, and me squinting to be Aware; but hoping in this moment of worldly Awareness, I might, like I do many mornings of actual waking, allow myself to drift below awake, sift through catalogs of dream archetypes, those I have come to love in there ever morphing and distinct in-distinctiveness. Like waking, my ability to live within the eden of denial and outside the confines of incomprehensible responsibility fade into detail and vivid images of awareness and necessity, and the crushing majestic singular appreciation of meaning and objectivity is all at once gone! Lights up, curtain down.
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