this box

i’ve looked at my writing over the month or so of posts, and this has all been forced writing, squeezed out of a block of cement.   because i hear that not writing can be unhealthy. but i look at this writing and i just wish i could erase most of it. i hope you have not read it.  but i can’t erase it. because the writing hasn’t felt like writing, but more like searching. searching for something old, new, forgotten or unrealized, unactualized, unanticipated, unintended. it has to go somewhere. that’s what this box is for.

i also feel like writing at this particular moment because I had a very relaxing day. the best day a person can have after a biopsy. imagine the weight off my shoulders.  before they released me from the hospital, they asked me if i had any questions. and I honestly could not think of anything to ask. then afterwards, at brunch with J, it occurred to me that i had neglected to ask when they would get the results. somehow that escaped my mind. i guess i was distracted by the sky and strawberry rhubarb pie.

About The Lost Pedestrian

In my wanderings throughout the moments/days/years, I try in earnest to find the mystical within the mundane and the mundane within the mystical, oftentimes confusing one from the other. I have wandered and roamed through many a city, many a town, in a state of wonder and bewilderment, without necessarily going anywhere. I am easily lost, but eventually found. (I am guessing you have just found me). My sincere hope is that you will find Something in this warehouse of thought, memory and false memory, words, numbers, tangents, murmurs, echoes (lots and lots of echoes), voices, dreams, and other paraphernalia.
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