The Lost Years

Looking under rocks for evidence. Anything to reveal that you were here. Rifling through dresser drawers. Searching obscure texts between the lines. Examining ancient artifacts for clues in a vain attempt to discover some shred of life’s presence hidden in a murky past. The truth lacks evidence to support any claim of substantially useless information concerning the reckoning moments of failure at present. The archeological site inside the mind isn’t very revealing. Bits of pottery, old bottle caps, and shards of broken glass litter the excavation dig. It’s dangerous work inside the head.  Somewhere near the brain's cerebral cortex is an old ticket booth selling tickets to enter the cranium.

This must be the place. We’ll dig deeper into the skull. The location where memories dwell. There must be a better way to remember the reasons why we forget. Recall monumental events and the significance of boring everyday moments. Some final conclusions to answer the questions about an individual's life from birth now. Rooting around for a sign or a symbol reveals the truth about this world on earth for those lucky enough to remember to live in it.

A construct of poor vision, runaway thoughts, and a lackluster imagination plodding step by step. No sense of humor. Years ago, in a small museum of lost memories, some called the embryo inside the womb a sorrowful trombone solo on the moon. There are too many bad ideas about precisely how we arrive at this point to linger a bit longer. There was a birth involved, but further investigation revealed no one could recall the exact events that unfolded after being born. Strangers slowly disappeared. One by one, they dropped like flies. It’s painful to watch. Wasting time in a place where the dead never lived, mostly because they never existed.

In real time, hanging out in a creepy place in a parallel space, a recycling dumping ground where personal memories mingle with spent-up thoughts in heaps of thoughtful debris. Eventually going to sleep, a long dirt nap. As usual, I forgot to die. It’s crying time for the forlorn weepers. A field day for bankrupt whiners and mindless moaners. It’s a sad day for the survivors of past lives who must live over another day. The same tired routine reincarnated a million times again. A tape loop Möbius strip of up-to-the-minute news flash conjectured tall tales. This story just in! Scientific proof that people reproduce repeatedly and shall be born, live, and die in that sequence of events.

After all these idle years, to think anything as dumb as a rock while spending useless time, as if frittering and wasting away could ever matter. How could it make a whisper of difference? It was a soul-crushing pittance to them. They never cared about their own extravagant feelings in this expensive world of worry, bubbled toil and trouble. Tell it to the bureau of sad affairs. The complaint box, stuffed with grievances. The suggestion box is always empty. Would you like to speak with a supervisor? I’m sorry, there’s nothing left to discuss. You’re fired.

Tell someone who gives a rat's ass. A terrible reason to request a refund. Your receipt is void. Your membership in the club is cancelled, and your personal account information is invalid. The meter has expired for faked feelings and cheap, wide-eye emotions. Who can put a price on time well-spent? A sorry case of buyer’s remorse. Please wait in line to speak with the next available customer service representative. Tell off the teller on the telephone of your dreams. Arguing with a ghost.

How the decades blend into one long-term chaos without insurance or guarantees. Invalidated, disabled, and handicapped, muddling through to the next day. Then do it again. Cancelled due to a lack of interest. Another wasted opportunity by proxy for the sake of birthday parties and manufactured holidays. Like greeting cards, for the next year and the year after, repeating claims of simply being. This is how to justify living life in incremental ways by expressing yourself into some sort of yearly existence while still breathing. Please accept our insincere condolences.

You’ll be notified immediately after your appointment arrival, final departure date, and destination cancellation. A description of your facial recognition photos and fingerprints will be posted on the bulletin board in every post office across the country. Please review the attached documents for your application approval and signatures, here on the dotted line, and again, please initial every copy of the form.

This is how to track progress in the hereafter now. No tabs allowed, and absolutely no credit. That’s the way it works. This place called home. Some call it a way station. Wandering aimlessly, alone with no thought of time or care for direction. There’s no place like home because there has never been any place like it before. Breathing, shallow, in and out. The years accumulate dust. Where does time go when it's gone? Looking sideways at brittle faded photos of younger years, trying to recall where it left off. How everything started over and wondering how it vanished.