Walking home, soaking wet from
all the things i’m afraid to really think about – back still sore from the
bathroom floor. Eyes still red and swollen, like i’m tired but can’t sleep.
Walking home, thinking about how
every piece of discarded trash was thrown away by someone at some time.
Alternatively, thinking about how it’s someone’s job to pickup the things that
are discarded, and how i am just another discarded thing waiting to be cleaned
up, or something.
Drifting down the side of a road,
stuck as a wrapper in the wind.
An empty wrapper that was devoured
by someone at some point.
Nothing but a representation of
what once was, a memory.
A candy wrapper, tumbling through
the world whatever way i’m being pushed.
And if i land right, someone might
mistake me for my former self.
And they’ll pick me up for a bit
before they realise there’s nothing there.
Then i’m back, floating in the
wind until someone else makes the same mistake.
I get stuck to my home, floating
in through the mail slot. I feel post-dated, like a post-dated letter that
showed up before the date signed – slightly out of conjunction with the time
around me, and the time i was composed in. And i’m a letter that was post-dated
September 12, 2001, completely unaware of something really important but not
quite sure what that event should be.
This will be a short chapter, in
life and this book.
Post-dated.
