even my confusion is abstract. I never
took art class, so I don't know how to
interpret myself. like I'm a Dead Sea
Scroll- I feel ages old. coffee-stained.
other people try to crack my code, but what
is the point? I lost my key. maybe I wasn't
even born with it. but that's ok.
something about being a mystery to
myself is enchanting, sensuous.
hieroglyphical. like a star, a scientist
can theorize what I consist of, but no-one
can get close enough to know me.
one night I dreamt of magnets. everyone
else was either north or south. I was neither.
part of me laughed, the rest of me
stored it away in the "DO NOT OPEN"
box of my brain. to open it would be
Pandora's Box 2.0. one wouldn't want to
be responsible for that. today I learned
a new word: anemoia. chipped paint,
tintype, victory rolls, transatlantic accents,
the movie A Christmas Story. these things
make me feel anemoia. an obscure song
that used to play on a record hits an esoteric
chord. for some reason, this tugs at my tear
ducts. in this manner, I cry myself to sleep.
hoping I am not the only one. but then, I
hope I am. it makes for good dreams.