Wednesday, January 24, 2007


I am so tired of being a ghost. It turns out to be harder than I thought, to be anything else. I've forsworn the sacraments of the old rituals that conjured a breathing, blood-pumping body out of the vasty halls of stupor, and I have nothing to replace them with. I drift, and chitter silently, like an ancient flickering film about Indian monkeys. No home. No body.

Suppose the burden of the past -- which I feel sit so heavily on my shoulders -- suppose that it's not the burden of a real past, but of an imagined one? It's a real burden, that's clear. It would be pretty comic for someone as stooped and crooked under his load as I am to deny it. But is it actually made of the past? Can it actually be investigated by way of recollection? If I could go back and see it, would I be flooded with understanding, or with confusion? I'm guessing confusion.

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