Lately. The weight of my short but not so short life hangs on me. Hamlet was a young thirty, as will I be, as will I be. Life goes this way. Life goes that way. How many books I have read this past year? Caught by work again, caught me sleeping; a few here, a few there, not moving the ball forward.
A couple pretty girls. The love of my life again, again. Twenty nine.
Taking tests for no reason. Up here in New York. Having fish and pie and tests, did I mention tests. Malls. Couldn’t raise your children up here, they’d grow up a little too white, a little comfortable, safe within the suburbs. The world burns outside, but I am safe within the suburbs.
People knock on my door. I solve small problems for them. I draft strongly worded letters to other short men, and they draft strongly worded letters in return. I have a small apartment, but pay my bills on time, mostly, mostly. Wish I was back there now. I wish I was back there now.
Twenty-nine years old. A somewhat simple life. Not the messiah by a long-shot. Try to do little evil. The world grows sad around me. I feel ok. Not happiness. Maybe just the numbness of a broken heart. A broken soul.
JB, the Existential Hero, the Edward Yellow, the Edward Williams, the Novelist, the Tale-Teller, the Latter Bard — where did he go? Whence? Left in Greensboro, with those other ghosts? And who is this? The man who wears my skin? The slave to science. The Reasonably Prudent Man.
For what? For why? Whence danger? Whence risk? When the sky opens, none of it will matter and all will be lost — so why not rage now and risk now and revel in the taste of life of on my tongue while I still have a tongue to taste with? Where shall I go next? To what purpose?
onward, christian. onward.