I wind up continually here or that one. I feel swarmed at this point frantic for somebody I frequently don't have the foggiest idea how to portray. Those I know virtuoso by me, their voices in doppler style make statements I just to some degree get, and many call it association or fellowship. She says rapidly how are you, and he says without hearing you that we made some exquisite memories at the café with every one of the birds, and the other she says as she leaves that she esteems our words together, and another he lets me know we are close since we have seen each other handle in the middle among classes and gatherings nearby. However, regardless of who I see, what I cruise by, or where I wind up, something feels untucked, or untuckable, such as wearing jeans that are sewn amiss with one longer leg.
Sporadically, I will plug my strolling to get something, a cup disposed of by somebody occupied, a delicate reckless word left by a companion, or a piece of turf developing through the leaves that the covering has thrown down nonchalantly at my feet. At that point of respite, I feel something. I'm me here, any place it is. Also, I think, this spot is me and I'm this spot. What's more, the frantic group around me will be me and we as a whole are we.
I change too in the strolling. I'm not the very me today that I assumed I was yesterday. The progressions might be very unobtrusive, similar to an egg cooking in a skillet. It doesn't become white out of nowhere. It requires a couple of moments, and keeping in mind that that might appear to be quick, it's not, but you can see the reasonable parts become white, hear the pop in the skillet, smell egg as it loses its wateriness, and afterward it's gone, eaten, retained into you. I'm that egg that used to be in the shell, then the skillet, and presently is a piece of you, inseparably. I'm eaten. Gone, but then, not.
I'm really just trying to say that yesterday I was a kid perusing sci-fi books in a room in a bug swarmed trailer in Las Vegas, ravenous, little, terrified, alone, brown, gulping words individually, figuring out how to walk. I was nobody, as a matter of fact and everybody. Nobody realized me aside from the main individuals in my day to day existence, the ones who made me and pushed me out into the world, and advised me to stroll, to go, to get out into the world and eat, flourish. Also, today, I'm none of those things, and they are presently not here and pushing, but I stroll with those previous me's in my back pocket.
Sporadically, I will plug my strolling to get something, a cup disposed of by somebody occupied, a delicate reckless word left by a companion, or a piece of turf developing through the leaves that the covering has thrown down nonchalantly at my feet. At that point of respite, I feel something. I'm me here, any place it is. Also, I think, this spot is me and I'm this spot. What's more, the frantic group around me will be me and we as a whole are we.
I change too in the strolling. I'm not the very me today that I assumed I was yesterday. The progressions might be very unobtrusive, similar to an egg cooking in a skillet. It doesn't become white out of nowhere. It requires a couple of moments, and keeping in mind that that might appear to be quick, it's not, but you can see the reasonable parts become white, hear the pop in the skillet, smell egg as it loses its wateriness, and afterward it's gone, eaten, retained into you. I'm that egg that used to be in the shell, then the skillet, and presently is a piece of you, inseparably. I'm eaten. Gone, but then, not.
I'm really just trying to say that yesterday I was a kid perusing sci-fi books in a room in a bug swarmed trailer in Las Vegas, ravenous, little, terrified, alone, brown, gulping words individually, figuring out how to walk. I was nobody, as a matter of fact and everybody. Nobody realized me aside from the main individuals in my day to day existence, the ones who made me and pushed me out into the world, and advised me to stroll, to go, to get out into the world and eat, flourish. Also, today, I'm none of those things, and they are presently not here and pushing, but I stroll with those previous me's in my back pocket.
