july 1, 1937
maybe
there is no room for me here. maybe i am larger than i have
assumed. maybe there is nowhere to house what my living entails,
nothing to support what my living requires.
then
again, maybe i am too small, too insignificant. maybe i have been
dropped into this life and somewhere below is my proper place but
i am too insubstantial to land.
maybe
i am an angel who has been sentenced to heaven.
i
am not where i should be and i have never been where i should
have been. and with such a foundation on which to build i doubt i
will ever be where i should be. it wouldnt bother me if
this was the price of existing, if this was the surcharge that
everyone had to pay in order to have a life. but i seems i
am alone in this predicament; others appear exempt from the
conditions, from the limitations imposed upon my living.
this
is not a situation i have imagined. this is not some fantasy that
i force to perform on a barren stage, before row upon row of
vacant days, nights
this
is real. i am not where i should be and i feel it, live
it; i have always felt it, lived it, and have never felt or lived
anything else.
i
know it when i see someone talking on the telephone and think
that the world was a better place while the phone was ringing. i
know it when i feel, when i hear, the door in every thing, in
every thought, in every emotion, closing forever before i can
sneak through. i know it when crows, the janitors of existence,
find my presence excessive. i know it when wasps, the terrorists
of existence, find their cause in my undoing. i know it when
dogs, the conscripts of existence, use me for target practice. i
know it when a cat, a tireless saint of existence, recognizes my
penance and finds a way to slink into my predicament to console
me. i know it when any person i have ever shared a moment with
leaves and there is no sound of their departure, no footprints in
the snow, no impression left on a chair, a bed, no warmth on my
hands, lips. i know it when i am sought by those who are sending
me away, when i am admired by those who can only build pyres,
when i am a burden to those who have been granted too much
life, when i am caressed by those who are destroying
themselves, when i am spoken to only by those who have already
died, when i can love only the idea of someone who has never
existed.
i
know it when it rains and i do not get wet.
i
feel it when a leaf falls through me, when a leaf tumbles over my
heart as though it were a pebble on a street that is starting to
dress for winter.
i
know it. i feel it.
and
it is endless.
from
Evidence ©
Mike Schertzer, 2000