Evidence

Between job insecurity hip replacement surgery and coronavirus, not much new to report. It’s all been reported. If it were not for C’s text messages throughout, I would barely know I even exist. And I still do not see any compelling evidence of that.

I feel like we are all being trained to develop OCD. This washing of hands and sanitizing each time I touch anything with a surface. I have to teach myself a whole new way to ride the escalator. It isn’t so easy.

How long can we continue like this? This might be the new reality. If there is such a thing. If there was even an old reality.

Most of the time, I feel nothing. Or maybe I do feel something, but that something turns out to be nothingness. I don’t know how many days and nights have passed since I felt something that was not nothing.

I wish I knew how to change this. How to turn this around. I’ve been wishing that for a long long time. It’s all I think about. It’s all I write about. Why would anyone want to even read this?

To spare myself confronting that question, the best thing I can do is to not tell anyone this writing, this blog exists. Which makes things a lot less awkward. And I can’t feel resentful about this, unlike when people do not show up at one of my performances when I pretty much take anyone who does not show up off my list. That gives you a sense of my level of maturity.

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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