It’s so easy being back here in the place that formed me. my place of origination. the source of the majority of things from which I have sprung. nearly lost but re-found friends will ask me what I am doing here. And I think, that’s such a strange strange question. Why are they not asking what I am doing there? that’s the real mystery. At least to me.

Elsewhere, people smile at me on the streets. They all look familiar, but I’m not sure how or why. I guess I am the one who must look familiar. I am surprised I am even recognizable to anyone anymore. Who are these people? I think they like my glasses. I am just the mannequin for my glasses. There are worst things to be.

Even this guy whizzing by on his bicycle along the lakefront looks at me quizzically. I wonder if that was the guy who smashed into me one July morn’ 10 years ago. It can’t be him, can it? Why would it be? I can’t think of a single reason. Other than to induce a palpitation or 2.

But one thing I can say for sure, it will be hard to leave again. Hard to go back there. I can barely stomach it.

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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