I think, somehow, that we are too alike, perhaps redundant in each others company, though I know this is not true and just a whim to get me by. And I know I make the truth with every breath, in and out, the truth of inhalation in constant dialogue with that other truth, breathe out. And the traffic cop who's passing, looking lost and vulnerable underneath her fur-lined badged hat, as the blustery wind licks around her edges with a whir. Where does she fit within this mess of social complication? My logic tells me nowhere, but at times I disobey. And I think back to my mother and her father, and her mother, though more distant in my memory. And the long and windy, winding road of our progenerators, creating us in their imagination of themselves. Rushing to capture the ever-moving image of their future, soon their past, which scrambles like a chicken forever just outside their reach.
So I sit here, in this melting plastic shelter from the cold, in this city at the center of the world, and I wonder at the meaning of myself, the culmination of all this rushing and confusion, disillusion, pain and suffering of before. And I wonder how they did it, why I'm different, how I can be at the same time more aware, yet unable to belong.