I get home late, again, to be greeted by a silent house that seems empty- but isn't. Quietly creeping up the stairs, I feel a stranger in my own home, where I've barely passed a few words in all the months I've been here with the others who reside therein. In the mornings, when I'm half asleep, I sometimes hear them talk about me; whispered words about my habits that, to them, seem so strange. With little else to do, I sit before a mirror and think. Thoughts pass easily- freely- about the events of the week proceeding; the people met, the words said, the behaviors acted out on; it all flows like an intangible mess; a weave of intersecting realities, paid out by chance. It is possible to live in thought, without substance or qualities. These are the things I think, as I sit, alone.
Here are some other words that represent the ideas that passed through my mind, another time, as I sat, as I do now, before the mirror. In many ways, they function as the mirrored image of my prose, filtered through the glass of poesy.
I'm not even sure if I feel like what I am;
how I'm seen by a small few
at odd occasions, every so little
but an hour or two.
And what am I when I'm alone,
but a sleeping grave
or a mass web of reflections.
Before a mirror, I ask:
'is this what I look like?'
Recalling incidents and their accidents
where I happen across platonic intimacy,
retracing the words that passed,
I think, with a wondering smile,
if I see me now as they saw me then,
and then, if so-
what's the point of it anyhow?
No comments:
Post a Comment