sometimes i look at who i was and knew and where i used to be, and it’s like a play—
like something i made up to be real,
rather than something that actually inhabits the realness that i am in
these faces, their lines, these eyes that were so familiar to me; that i saw my entire world in; that were my entire world—
are now vacant, alien and odd to any subconscious i possess
the thing is, i understand:
that these different instances come into my life to teach me something;
about myself, about the realness around me and what shatters it
and this isn’t even to say that i am particularly haunted by any specific pasts at this present
but now that i’ve seen and unseen them, what am i supposed to do?
what happens when you recall things and when you don’t?
do they still exist somewhere out there? in some other realness that isn’t mine?
what is that realness if it isn’t the one i call home?