Sometimes it is hard to find oneself.
This morning, I found the pair of socks I thought the washing machine had gulped.
I even found my keys.
But I cannot find myself.
I have looked under the mattress of love, in the typing machine that it is work, in between the benches of friendship...
but life...
...is gone!
Life and I missed each other, and I can't recall!
Awake, I am sleepy, and at night, I can't fall asleep. Either way, I can no longer dream. Inanimate, all I can do is protect the body you once inhabited. Without you, my dear soul, all I can do is wait for death to come. My childhood, the memories of a once-up-a-time child, are a fancy fantasy, a tale someone might have read to me. The calamity of hope.
All I can do is project myself into the inertness of objects because I can no longer find myself among subjects.
