What can I tell you of my life,
my past twenty-three years,
I who barely can remember?
What was lived has passed,
a remnant converted into memories not recalled,
like old rent receipts or books abandoned
in the trash room
when their owners have grown sick of them.
Like empty beer bottles tossed into the recycling bin.
Of course, everyone I met was strange,
and maybe they thought the same of me:
how I reached and recoiled like a shy dream image,
how the sounds of the automatic garage door and of the
air conditioning unit surrounded me. The ceiling of my apartment shimmered
with the reflection of an imaginary, much younger man.
Someone, acquainted with me, said my eyes were glassy,
like the coffee table top in the lobby, but what was there,
what I had and lost, I never fathomed.
2 comments:
I find this a moving piece of writing. I'm so glad you write, you have a real talent and ability to transfer your thoughts onto the page. I don't know anyone who can do that as honestly and as real as you Gary.
Matt.
What a great analogy. It looks like you have so many struggles with living independently. Well, life will throw hard bits on you. It doesn't matter how hard you get hit. What does matter is how you get up and keep moving forward. When you succeed, you'll look back and laugh at the hard times. Good luck.
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