Read books, I swear I have, real ones, quite a few, in fact. And I suspect I’ll read a few more, in part, in whole, maybe even write some. Who knows. I better. Some might say they’ve gotten me nowhere, these books, and that’s just because here is, they think. But is is just a seems and I hate to be so cagey and sententious but they don’t see the seams and I’m damn near bursting, now, here.
Nowhere is a has been, a washed up was, I’d tell them, because there’s always more and what else.
What else, for the sake of argument, what else. Places, people, things, and dreams. Losses, gains, and memories, lost and gained. All has been, was, wasn’t, and used to be. What else could I say.
Could say I’ve been places that were little more than spaces, left places that had become more like things, longed for things I could only imagine somehow as places, and dreamed of unplaceable places and completely speakable things. Like home. Like love.
Could say I’ve found people, tried people, hurt people, pushed, pulled, left, adored, known, despised, seen, needed, renounced, loved people—and been. Could say I’ve had long conversations with some of them and longer arguments with others and with them too that somehow meant more and said less. Could say I’ve been terrible, terrible, and also not so.
Could say I’ve had audiences and a little recognition, caused a little stir, here and there but not much, barely anything, really. Could say I’ve hidden from it all, places, people, life, self. Could say I’ve denied it; could also say I’ve made it work. Could say I’ve lost, won, gained, forgotten, and been lost and found and then lost again. Hopefully not forgotten.
But what does it matter now. There’s a line in a song I know but can’t remember that says you have to do it all just to know where it gets you. Could say I’m on my way, then, in my way, quite possibly to nowhere. I need to know if. And that, my friends, is somewhere. It’s now, here. The if is the I am and will be.