.
who was that person
so dangerously
so miserably
and ignorantly guiltless
I can no longer imagine him
can never hold him
in my memory
my past self
an idea I can't put a life to
thin trails of existence
I can no longer trace
except in wisps
whiffs
smells and tastes
and I’m back
for moments
dropping into and out of
a disconnected
bubble of time
and now
so intimately
I feel our wounds
and I want to know why
want to revisit
the actor of those times
but he's conveniently
and elementally
unavailable
as if that person
was never me
no causes
or understanding
from an earlier me
or time
how can I understand
so clearly now
know and accept my failures
and successes
and have no sentient
serial link
back
except for
my creations
art
game designs
and other ideas
still alive
in me
my notebooks
prototypes
and past read
and unread books
mostly in boxes
which might remind me
of ideas pursued
feelings felt
and ideas thought
with some already remembered
repurchased as electrons
or redrawn rewritten from memory
reinvented
but as for who I was
who I have been
no past intelligence
by simple recall
except for warnings
distrust
and splintered love
the slowly roiling
substance of my awareness
ragged fog of memory
without a plot
and day after day
only helpless relentless becoming
ever dawning awareness
constant learning
mocking what I needed to know
and didn't
.
.
.
.
August 10 Thomaston Maine
edited August 16 & 17
.
.
.
© 2017 William C. Eberle