With Wolves in Pursuit

Posted: May 24, 2012 in Uncategorized

When you’re younger, and you can make mistakes on a regular basis with a flashy smile and a sorry, the importance of a city map isn’t the direction or the street names, it’s the push pins dotting the blocks with strips of paper tied around the end with names of people, times of parties, and glossy-eyed remembrance of sexual mistakes that still had an upside in their respective moments.

Then as the world spins from beneath you, you pull the pins out and store them away in a shoe box, or a scrapbook, and what you get to keep is this washed-out Polaroid vision, something your little cousins imitate to demonstrate a fashion of remembering now what’s happening as they live it. Just pictures and pictures of house exteriors. Who knows how the new tenants decorate, or if there’s just a cloister of junkies living in squalor, just needing a roof to shoot up under and a ride to the hospital just in case. The people you knew, or barely knew, are long gone, and the threads that tied you to them become more and more taut each day until they snap and you feel no pull in any direction.

You stand, a black X without a treasure buried beneath, and you wait for somebody to dig you up and take you with them.

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