Whole

I'm not really in any place you can find, because what you can find is just a small part of me. I'm scattered through time. What I was, what I am, what I will be, what could have been. Imponderability. Possibility. Infinity. If you happen to cross my empty shell, will I be there in that moment? Very often, lately, in other encounters, I haven't been. As I say, empty shell. I've embarked in a trip to the far regions of the unknown of myself, and left a not so significant part of me behind, just to keep my body going. In most cases, inertia keeps me going. In the rest, all around me willingly or unwillingly point the way to follow. And I do, creating a false illusion of normality, getting along. I have a sense of a tape recorder at work, as if I was going through a limb, lightly aware of things, but as soon as I reach the other side, wherever that is, or when that is, I'll rewind the tape, and understand what I've been through, the things I said, lived, heard, felt, did, thought I knew. The traps, the games, the mistakes, the smiles, the tears, the strong heart felt emotions, the shiver in the tip of my fingers, the cold in the end of my back, and so much more. Like the in temporal moment in the end of one's life, when everything flashes in our mind, as clear as the day of those events. A part of me wonders who has come back from the dead to say exactly what happens just before we pass. Part of me really doesn't care. Poetic liberty drives the human race, most especially regarding death. So, I'm recording events… what else, and what more? Fragments, parallel lives, broken mirrors into existence. Not to be condensed into a few seconds in the end of my life but to be savoured later, or beyond, if there, concepts such as time or space exist.
My life is not a mental exercise, is not something to be taken in parts, my life is a whole made of what is present and absent, even if a part of me is on the edge of the universe, even if a part of me is locked in a neurosis thirty something years old, what remains is nevertheless the whole of me, because what exists of me elsewhere or else when, is still me. And I am the totality not just what I choose, or elect to be me.
If I can't find myself whole in this place in time, what hopes anyone other than me can have? Well, it's not really a matter of hope, but essentially faith. He or she who believes in me will find me, exactly where I am meant to be.