There was an off-handed knowingness . . .
an instability to the morning
that ran red lights and took corners at unsafe speeds
and yet the arrow didn't budge
in fact it seemed to egg on odysseyites
who had been flown in at the last minute . . .
You were landlocked
with reams of paper
and a willingness to map the contours
of life . . . unrolling the record . . . smoothing
it flat . . . turning autobiography
into cartography
no doubt dressed for the part
which had been reshaped to fit the fork in the road . . .
moment . . . or moments . . . palpable . . .
seemingly seamless . . .
This was not about loneliness . . .
the murkiness of loneliness . . .
It had been written up as such
but then a call came in from above
and the wording was changed . . .
We had no idea where you were headed
with your thesis . . . but after a while
it didn't matter . . .
There was something about the journey into the interior . . .
something about the interior design of a mind
that seemed to be plotting a way around . . .
or better, a way out . . .
Paulina Otylie Surys |