i miss me. i forgot to look in the mirror for so long, now i don't dare. something tells me, from sly half-glances over my shoulder, over a child's head, putting on my coat, rushing to the door, that the woman in the mirror is no longer someone i know. you go away long enough, people change. their face, their voice. you stop writing long enough, the ink dries up, the paper yellows. i am scared. what if it grates? what if i have turned into someone i don't know. or like. it's deeply unsettling, this shyness in facing myself. and so i go out of my way to avoid any encounter. no journal by my bed. no blog. hours spent on internet, reading other people's stuff. no batteries in my camera. no money for blank notebooks. no ladder to reach the high shelf where the poetry is stored. no proper light-bulb in the closet. how long have i been tiptoeing around like this, hiding from myself?
i keep saying it's a good life, this new life, and it probably is. but i miss me. and it makes me wonder, how can a life of mine be real good, if i'm not in it?
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