My life experience cannot be duplicated. It is too complex, too richly detailed. It is personal, private. It is mine alone. What happens to us, happens to us individually. Triumphs, trials, and tragedies can be shared, but each is felt, interpreted, and remembered differently. Even the death of a sibling, parent, or family friend is not simply one death: the departed not only dies for himself, he dies separately and again for each and every survivor. And so too do we live: we are open to countless interpretations, including our own. What, then, is the value in listening to me? Is there any? Like anyone, to some I might be pleasant to be around, and to others I might be perceived as a complete waste of time: I might bore you or rub you the wrong way; you might not like what you see in this particular mirror; or we might seem so alike in our thoughts and manner of expression that there is a sense that we have known each other for a long, long time. However it is, however it may be, I am profoundly, beautifully alone. I have no desire to influence anyone, to tell others how to think or live. If you are influenced, benefited, or harmed in any way, it is your choice, not mine. I am not an oracle. I am a spark of life in an aging human body. That I write, and publish what I write, is just something I do. It is part of what I do. For me, although it might not outwardly show, each day is a journey and adventure. Writing poems is like planting absurd little signs along the way, or dropping bread crumbs, or noting my temporary presence on a freight car or the cold supporting concrete of a freeway overpass. Whether you read them or not, you are on your way. Pleasant journey. Keep going.
February 3, 2021
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