All my life is told in transitions and departures, and always with a backwards glance. I'm perfecting the art of magical nostalgia, words that work like faded postcards. I am again soon to leave a place, certain I am not the same person as when I arrived. This chapter, too, like all the rest, is sure to be rewritten. These iterations, these phases, they come dangerously close to being new identities.
The paradox of a narcissist: For all the time spent looking in a mirror, I'm rarely sure which face I'm wearing. I'm one driver with several cars, my essence in tact but the characters I play different in each scene. The road should not be a medium for change, inwardly, but a simple tool for shifts and subtle adaptations. I take that too far, I think, but don't know the mechanics. If i find that magic word, can I lock myself into one form, can I be the final stage?
To dream of stasis.
Wishing for summer storms and cleansing rains is an unfulfilled dream you can't stop having. Will this new adventure be the catalyst? where's my crucible?
Some where, there's a catapult, waiting for me. I will sit in its cradle, my loved ones will gather and watch as the rope is cut. It'll fling me upwards and as night falls on what we'll joking call my apotheosis party, God help me finally land on that big red X, wherever it may be.
We crawl through the corridors of the train we're riding, leaning out windows, scaling its side. We don't need to escape, we don't need to steer. We only need to explore every inch of the thing, to know the ride, to exhaust the options, to see clearly around us if not ahead of us. We jettison the dead weight and take on new cargo. And on and on as ever, we're rocketing in one direction, but dreaming up twists and turns as if we could will a bend to the track that was laid by a far-back, forgotten version of ourselves.