n. the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own—populated with their own ambitions, friends, routines, worries and inherited craziness—an epic story that continues invisibly around you like an anthill sprawling deep underground, with elaborate…
i look around me. i see sea for miles. i’m not quite sure how long i’ve been at this, you know, floating listlessly, while this ocean’s waters has its way with my weary body on some notion of tacit approval. is this the way hemingway saw it?, through saline crusted lashes, constantly gasping for air, while treading just enough to.
or is this what whitman spoke of?, truly, literally becoming one with the natural world (oh my sea legs have failed me). did i, excuse me, am i experiencing now what generations upon generations have already? is this humanity’s experience? i often think of you walt, what in the hell you meant, the world that inspired your words. to feel the maritime flora and fauna brush by my legs as i readily submit to the whimsy of the currents is an experience neither cruel nor gay, but it merely is, it is.
or maybe i am to take on the beatnik mantra, a bohemian sensibility of wanderlust. to find satisfaction in loose ends and letting them unravel.
all i’ve tasted is this saltiness in the back of my parched mouth for as long as i can remember. all i’ve felt is the unforgiving afternoon sun overhead, beating down on my neck for as long as i’ve been awake. a piece of driftwood, swollen and rotted to the core, still floating, merely floating, barely floating, just floating.