mmmcdviii

getting lost

fascinating, tragic, really,
the difficulty bringing up
an honest subject that, as
it turns out, is the heart
of the matter, the crux
of the problem.

used to, on a normal day,
a day like any other, i’d
willingly dwell in the
darkest recesses of my
head, my soul, anything
that i thought was me,
for real, and dish it out
to whomever was within
earshot.

but there’s that moment,
a boundary which, once
crossed (and it’ll take a
stupid heavy amount of
work, of will, of discipline
to get back to the safe side
of this boundary), the dark
recesses take over almost
everything. but the worst,
the most stunning part of
what happens, at least
when i cross the line
and become aware
once again that i
must somehow
conjure up
whatever
it might
take to
find my
way back—

every pathway
out of which comes
all of the straight talk
about who i adamantly
think i am—and it’s not
that the willingness to
convey is gone—it’s
that those pathways,
for the duration of
time it takes for me
to get back to where
i belong (let’s say
there are techniques,
there are methods,
none of which
are guarantees;
let’s say the
journey is
treacherous
and replete with
what may as well
be landmines, and
magnificently monstrous
structures that arise almost
as if to simply keep you away
from home, from normalcy, from
health, from magic and love and
productivity and the capacity
to feel part of civilization,
as it were; all the maps
are inconsistent and
way off scale)
render you
speechless,
and since you
cannot speak
in that normal
and comfortable
and everyday fashion,
asking for directions
is the most difficult
equation and cannot
be verbalized adequately,
and paranoia rises to the fore,
making anyone you might
meet in this confusing
land, friend or foe or
neutral, suspect;
and cause you to
doubt you will ever
make it back. and
anyway, what can you
say? in a land where
communication is
near impossible.
what can be
said? what can
ever be said?

but perhaps you’ve got
what it takes – maybe
you’ve had lots of practice,
and rather than draining the life
out of you, these journeys made you
stronger. perhaps, when you find your
self cursing the world and yourself for
once again getting yourself lost, for once
again leaving your safe space, the place
wherein eloquence and focus and
engagement transpire with abun

dance, and with joy and ease,
while you know that the trek
back will be long, arduous
and fraught with a series
of uncomfortable if not
downright dangerous
situations. each time
that i find myself
there, alone, in
that hard country,
i curse myself a
bit less for not paying
attention to where i was
meandering, and then i just
get to the work of getting the 

hell back to where i’m supposed to be.

there are no other viable
alternatives. it’s do or
die. and it might be
awkward and pain
ful and scary and
there are times
when i’m not
certain that
i’ll get back,
but when i do,
and, knock wood,
thus far i always have,
the release, the relief,
and the peace that
comes from being
able not only to
B R E A T H E,
but, to S P E A K,
to L I S T E N, and to
E N G A G E,
these liberties
are as if newfound,
my perspective, altered
irrevocably, and so the
possibilities are exponential.

the capacity to see where one
is going, on all dimensions,
and to come back to that with
enough regularity, so as not to get
lost...maybe we’re supposed to lose our way.
or perhaps, as it sometimes appears to me
as i make my way through a crowd, most all of us
are already lost, perhaps irrevocably. my country
is huge and strange and captivating, as in it
holds me captive? as in it enslaves me? as in
it holds me safe? it holds me gently within
its borders? but i hear the voices on
the other side sometimes.
and i. . . . .