I am writing to you as a survivor of the wreckage. the wreckage being that place where artists go, where those who have no visible identity except for the art that they make… that place where artists who are not making art go when they’re not making art. I write to you as I climb out of the wreckage. it’s snowing out. and very slushy.

But I am free of that place.

After the highest highs of my performance with BC 2 and half months ago, I fell back to earth and realized I had forgotten to make a life for myself there. It was something I had neglected. But it didn’t bother me because I wasn’t paying attention. And now I have no choice but to pay attention.

It’s so easy to stop paying attention because inattention is kind of a refuge. I definitely do not need a refuge as much as most other people on the planet. But I seem to go there anyway. To that place, untainted by the evil and malevolent and mean-spirited forces who have seized control of the government.  I go there and find that it doesn’t it exist. Much like the life I have created there that I long to return to doesn’t exist.

The purpose of my telling you this is not because it has any meaning and not because it needs to be told. Consider this to be nothing more than a typing exercise.


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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