There are many things I need to forget: a collection of wreckage I keep sifting through for clues, examining and re-examining regrets, hasty decisions, dreams too wild and impractical, delusions of grandeur, the loss of confidence of the one gone looking for music in the frozen field. Thoughts too dark to admit (to tell), the one(s) unworthy, chosen merely to have another perspective. Objects I bought for happiness shed behind the shed of the House (of Being). The sum, an untrained army, a mess not an elegant map with clear rivers, branches and arteries of lost ways, what brought me Here. Days thrown down like low cards in a bad gamble of unending hours. No trump card to carry though.

Until I re-draw the chalk line in the darkest of dark (of perception(s))—the indistinct white line (fuzzy like my logic at times), not indelible, not fully etched or defined, a bit old-fashioned even, giving dust. I expect it to disappear yet again without forewarning, that I will with anguish, erase it again in one quick motion of an arm. The line of Now that I step over with front foothold and not back in the rearview mirror of consciousness. And if I find you Here and do not speak under the sky that bridges us, forgive my silence. Know I am grateful for your presence, your kindness. Winter elongates daylight that inches so slowly. In the frozen field, I am re-discovering music, the ice-covered blue bird in my gloved hands, so as to play a piano of broken (or erased) keys—odd songs that may comfort another’s suffering.

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