Drifter
Meet me at the train station or on horseback. It doesn't matter how we leave, just as long as we move faster than our memories. Too much lip service has been paid to the present. Mindfulness is like a flare gun, and I do not intend to give up my location. Nobody talks about the blind spot in between past and future events that evade the floodlights of this moment. It is a pocket in time that registers like a daydream where things are preserved exactly the way you want. But these spaces collapse under the combing agents of a fate that go house to house. They overturn inflatable pools and open the lids of every recycling bin. They will get you eventually. You can't remain the same. I've tried to resist the peace breakers by holdout. You know, call the bluff of star charts. There were times I would contemplate nailing down personal effects to my dining room table while strapping myself into a weighted chair. My hope was that the death angel that seeks familiarity would pass over me. Anything to prevent the inexorable pull of unforeseen transformation. Though it sounds stupid, if change can not catch you, maybe there is statute of limitations that cools down it's stalking. Will the cosmos drop an insistent pursuit of a grain of sand to refocus on a more scintillating target? After all, who am I that the sweeping force of life itself must reckon with me personally. Would it cut through an asteroid belt just to make be confront a fear or drop a grudge? Electrical storms and earthquakes do not care about my wellbeing. However, a transcendent mind can still them both to encounter me in the vulnerability of a mourning shower. If I promise to keep a low profile, the river of time may irrigate itself around me. Conjuring desperate plea deals do not work. You can not bid on what is to come. Neither can you scale up or down on fortune. Tragedy arrives without papers or pre-arrangement. So run and hide. Do not think yourself wise upon the consideration of surrender. I don't want be like so many before me that found a pretense of serenity in accepting inevitable outcomes. I am the gingerbread man. Kick in my door and you will see an open window with curtains being blown about by a draft. No one will make me conform to a stage of life. No outside force will reshape my body. Arguments travel by the highway unaware that I sleep under the bridge. When will this search party disband? I have done nothing wrong. Will I be apprehended and returned back to captivity? Which of my appendages does fate want to afflict? Will it put gold in my vault? Has it lined up tormentors or flower bearers? Alteration can also be a reward. I am fond of my backyard and the creatures that roam in it. There are eight to nine faces I know by name. The list of my favorite foods are at capacity. Even my taste in clothing has not evolved since I leapt off the timeline. The sky is dark and I can tell the story is about to enforce a permutation beyond my control. Freedom is now a matter of curling my middle finger around the index.
