if I picked at pebbles all day long, spread them along sunset park, and walked on closer to concrete than sand, its possible to reach full circle without any footprints. its not that footprints are not allowed, its that they would be invisible even if I made them, as befits the journey, odd and lonely.
there are occasional oases, its not a total whine fest, but the persistent image of voices beyond the living, living through me, mist up the looking glass and I have no reflection left. July and August are my least favorite months, there is a constant predeliction to commentary, doubling back to make sure I really did move, doubling again, and finally, running away from everywhere.
all through this reckless dance, there are no footprints. no terrain, no storms, just a maze inside a paper regime. experience has made me better at stillness, but not much, the urge to control often wins, often makes for interesting scorch marks, all mine, if only. its not a suffering exactly, that would imply more humanness than I can manage. its a blind handoff to the lizard brain, to do as it will,
a certain reckless unconcern for consequences, a frenzy of activity to substitute for any real progress. whatever that means. a sense of forging life, not as a blacksmith, but as a counterfeiter. They're all there, the highs, the lows, the evens, but I have left the building somewhere during the show.
all this criticism for numbness is just baloney, there is numbness everywhere in the billion invisible footprints, going around and around on a timetable to the same places, doing the same things, leading the same life. I see it, but like a puny human, I need to feel it to believe.
is there something wrong with me, but of course, plenty, except when I check out. I am usually perfect when I am no longer around, as a sort of conceptual human. much better than a live person with feelings.