Somewhere between the strangers who turn into us, and the strangers we inevitably become - are the lives we occupy briefly and imagine to be the whole of ourselves.
These transient identities. These dust motes on anarchic tumble-tide trajectories. These momentary illusions coalesced from the quantum cause and ripple effect of all history, ready to evanesce at the slightest shift in neurochemistry or universal whimsy.
It seems I can no longer find time to define time... and meaning... and underlying form... and all those other things that occupied my mind so completely. Is life distracting me from the thoughts or were the thoughts distracting me from life? Am I better off where I am or where I was?
Was I a better stranger once? Will I be a better stranger hence? Am I at least half as far from who I was, than from whom I want to become? Can these things be measured with any accuracy or meaning?
I know I cannot know for sure - but it somehow pleases me that I’m still the kind of person who'll ask a purely poetic question.
If only to beg poetic answers.
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