If there's even the slightest chance, I can't say that I'm wasting my time.
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People living in the woods? Clothes hanging on strings tied to trees. Empty water and beer bottles, trash bags, shopping carts leaning upside down against trees without wheels. People actually living in these woods with make-shift bed-sheet and plastic-tarp tents. Shady men walking into the woods with even shadier women. A bike trail ride next to said woods and strange people. I thought this kind of stuff only existed in movies. Odd.
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Usually, when a person says he's losing his mind, it means he has had a temporary brain fart. When I say I'm losing my mind, I really mean it. Each day my memory is a book of photographs, filling with snapshots of every second and everything I do and say that day. As the day goes on, photos are taken out of that book and burned. By nightfall I have a handful of photographs with which I would have a very difficult time making any type of comprehensible story. And why can't I ever remember the definition of a word that I've known most of my life? Or even more importantly, why can't I ever think of a word when I want to? Losing one's memory is a depressing inevitability. I just wish I were older and could blame it on old age or Alzheimer's.
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My life would make a very odd movie. Boring, but odd.
About Me
- B.S.H.
- I have an MFA in poetry from the University of Florida, and since poets make no money, I'm looking into the lucrative profession of fly fishing, though I've never been fond of that much silence, or fishing.