In things I am, and am not, because I lack and desire and feel the kind of urges I couldn't fully explain until recently. In time I was, and wasn't, because either I couldn't remember what my place was in it or wasn't doing anything particularly remarkable and may as well not have been anyplace at all.
In time, I am, and have always been, even if I was relatively insignificant. But I was here, and still am and I still remember some of the smallest details with the complete lucidity of someone who was totally interested. I could speak of instances in waiting rooms as a kid or inconsequential car rides with the utmost precision, yet couldn't recall the majority of my most joyful moments, or the seeming profundity of my most miserable hours.
In time, such acute sensations have faded. I too have faded, only to be rejuvenated (perhaps too strong a word), undeniably changed. I have experienced the pleasure of a sound mind at the peak of intense ecstasy and failed to appreciate it. I have also experienced the horrors of a lost soul marinating in the depths of irrational, senseless pain and have forgotten its significance. In these memories I am but a viewer from the present, distant and detached, at times utterly dull, others half-listening. I stare and stare, but I don't know what it means. I don't know who that is. I don't recognize him fully-- only as an acquaintance whose mannerisms seem quaint and, if anything, serve to embarrass, slightly.
It has been suggested to me that I ought to take the position of thinking that in each present moment, I am reborn. I'm considering it.
I have seen the sidewalk pulsate, pavement rise from the earth as its adjacent counterparts recede inward. I have seen the sky turn virbrant, braided colors and take on a different appearance entirely, an indescribable quality, and I've felt the streaming tears of pure joy run down my cheeks as my body shuddered with spontaneous pleasure, and it has passed, and it is now just a memory.
I am from one moment to the next a has-been, seeking redemption or at the very least, freedom from the crushing boredom of the whateverness of the mundanity of the unstimulating, of the less-than-alright, of the un-yummy. But things will assuredly be yummy once more. I'll be reborn into them, in the midst of their gooey froth, only to be reborn out of it into another car ride or doctor's office, pining for the sensations linked to the images I've carefully retained. In the meantime, the lonely nostalgia of all my good-timin' erodes my soul.
I am, in things, perhaps less than in my dreams
I am, in fact, barely kept in tact--
By desire, by my brain
By these things I can't explain
Or couldn't until I figured out their meaning
Now that I have, I'd like to think
I am redeemed.