Something Forgotten, Something Lost

I'm waiting.

For what? Tell me what emerges from within? What is that look on your face?

Forgive this.. this.. exposition. What of the adventures?

I suppose what I mean to say is that adventures die. Always die when we let them. I mean, I mean to say that when I find myself from A to B and forget what I am what I'm doing. Well the pavement all looks the same. I suppose I'm looking for my imagination. It's sad. I think. It's like this:

There was a little animal. It was an animal not quite like one that you've seen. A little monster, I suppose. But not a terrifying monster. Not one to fear.

I found it at the airport. It looked hungry, so I gave it a piece of my granola bar. It looked lonely so I petted its head. It looked friendly, so gave it a name. I called it 'Inspiration'.

The metal detectors didn't sense it. The pat down man didn't feel it. The border guard didn't see it. But it was there. Right there in my jacket pocket, curled up like a pair of fuzzy socks. I'm surprised they didn't suspect my smile. Sly and childlike. A secret kind of smile that reveals what it hides.

But they're not trained to notice such things are they?

In Korea I worked hard. I didn't get home until late at night. But it was ok. I'd spend all my time with my little friend. He made me laugh. And everyday I didn't care how hard I had to work. Because I knew I had my little monster waiting for me at home. He waited at the door for me, he stayed up late with me, he slept beside me while I read, and posed for me while I drew. He left little invisible footprints all over the walls and the ceiling. It didn't matter if the wallpaper was cracked, or if my apartment was empty. He was always there. He was always digging through trash, dragging things home. Scraps of paper, discarded toys.

We used to play all the time. But then I made some other friends. Their names are Vice and Sloth. I began to hang out with them more. Some nights I'd call to say I'd be home late. Some nights I didn't call at all. I'd just stumble in at 3 or 4 a.m. and trip over something at the door step. Something fuzzy. I'd mumble a curse and crawl into bed. Followed a moment later by my faithful little friend.

Then one night I came home, and there was no one waiting at the door. I sat down at my computer and began to write an email. Was something missing? I couldn't remember. Did someone else use to live with me? I wanted to go looking, I wanted to ask someone, but I couldn't even remember his name. I began surfing the websites I usually surf. Unaware that I was secretly hoping he'd turn up. That he'd send my a message. Was I writing an email? I can't even think, my apartment is so messy. How did it get so messy?

I need to clean up, then I'll write this email. I took out a big black trash bag and began throwing things in it. Some old receipts, a brochure, a ball of hair, a child's drawing, the arm of a discarded toy, a toilet paper tube, an old pair of socks.

I threw the brimming bag over my shoulder and hauled it down to the corner. Now I can think, now I'll write that email. I sat down at me computer and began to type.

from: nathan sharp
to: everyone
date: Feb 26, 2007 12:34 AM
subject: Something Forgotten, Something Lost
mailed-by: gmail.com

I'm waiting.

For what? Tell me what emerges from within? What is that look on your face?

Forgive this.. this.. exposition. What of the adventures?

I suppose what I mean to say is that adventures die. Always die when we let them. I mean, I mean to say that when I find myself from A to B and forget what I am, what I'm doing. Well the pavement all looks the same. I suppose I'm looking for my imagination. It's sad. I think.