The light of a misty morning’s grasp into extends its reach into this dusty old cavern incised within the westward face of the area’s tallest structure. Morning starts with the three nocturnes of a French composer. A mood of continued reverence is summoned for the absence of the former residents whose artifacts lay about still not displaced or fundamentally disturbed since their departure. For that fact alone this space remains theirs and not mine. I am merely a squatter come to rest in hope of resurrecting some fraction of the bygone past. The place for the most part the imprint of a foot within dry sand just as it has been left for so long. Music purchased from three decades past and played at different stages of my ever unfolding solitude. All my childhood fears no fully realized. An outcast to all worlds. The worst exile being from the long accustomed intimacy of my own kind. Everyone else, once friend and distant cousin, merely possessed of dry and distant familiarity as an acquaintance by virtue of the ignorance of so many veritable events once fresh within my mental register that now can no longer be so easily summoned past the blockage of that now darkened cavity of an empty disused heart.
How long will I continue this farce? To let the dust continue to accumulate in this museum without intervention. To water the other last living thing that knew life when the two of them did? These tiny insignificant trophies undisturbed about me that I view as parts of a now insoluble puzzle, the sense of same that I will lose by by bits and pieces with the decline of my mental acuity. When will that remaining breeze of life’s ignoble destiny fracture them tossing them off the edge of their current uneasy stability into the chaos of a pile of discards at the mercy of indifferent hands for mere pennies on the dollar? This collection of artifacts of some monetarily valuable mixed in with the humdrum of more trivial discards. Each bringing light in the mind’s eye in exhuming some long past everyday incident that shares a forgotten everyday task or reveals what became an unfulfilled heartfelt desire never acted upon. My remaining narrative of an extinct but beloved world. Fine cut glass bowls and vases once proudly offered as a heritage from past generations going back to a faraway motherland. Empty ornately decorated cardboard boxes simply containing collections of brittle rubber bands, bent paperclips and perhaps a scrap of paper with the scrawl of the day’s event recounting the anonymous shuffle of eras past. Tarnished silver services ever in plain view behind cabinet glass but never used. Out of fashion variations of everyday household items that were like constant companions in early childhood but have become forgotten in plain view until the present after they have outlasted their owners. So much that was embraced in necessity of everyday life but no longer useful to the paucity of of current sorrow bound existence. That low shifting shuffling of constant clicks from a small German wall clock ticking that is still reset because like a baby in its mother’s womb, I still refuse to live without the comfort of its distraction.
The restless world without refusing to stand still, menacing this waking muse. And slowly this once expansive abode begins to look like small dingy little rooms essentially no different from so many others within the larger inventory of another two hundred units within the structure housing essentially the same. This longstanding arrangement within my corner simply just another collection of artifacts of multiple eras distinguished only by the fact of having been anchored here undisturbed for a few decades more than most. Inevitability to at some point soon throw all into disorder, as must any sandcastle in falling prey to the evening’s relentless wind and water’s tides. The chill of the same driving contemplation back from that timeless missive of the ocean and into a smaller personally inspired world of the appreciation of one’s own life such as it has become. Stillness and the rising chorus of unseen ethereal sylphs that seemingly have forever hovered about the edge of one’s dreams taking custody of what once was, but now has eroded away fully into nothing. All those lasting sorrows and grief heavy sufferings waylaid into inevitable forgetfulness. And eventually, death, leaving these inculcated experiences to fly about anonymously within an endless universe of all the other invisible grains of sand that have composed every enterprise of humankind in great cities ground down to dust upon the relentless mill of time.