Self-expression aside there are worlds that one can be forgotten by. The so called ‘real’ world in the present that is made up by strangers that sometimes seem like your friends but fall away from your vicinity as quickly as the petals of a daisy. The world of a time that once was solid waking reality but as with all things incidental slips away with the passage of time. Go help you if you no longer play an active role that is no longer visible to others. You exist only in an abstract context of an imaginary pillar on a portico somewhere that is taken for granted as always being there. But nothing can save you from the stillness of the final realization that there is nothing left but the fact of yourself. No one to soothe or rely upon as you might have done so carelessly with those now long gone int he fiction of the past. The winds of change find you too far off course to ever pick up an expected trade wind to bring you to that pleasant fiction once a reality now lost horizon called home.
Sadness, happiness, expectation all beyond reach in the stillness of the night that comes to remind you that you are in the empty space known all to well as the now. That same ‘now’ that has no possibility of supporting the fictional character that you never seemed to be in the first place. You are just there with no clue about anything. Why things happened and what will happen next with no fit explanation of the mechanism that summoned you into life or fit reason why you should continue to be so. You are just another stick of furniture in an empty room gathering dust waiting to be discovered by some faceless person who will make a trivial decision to take everything that reflected who you were and who you tried to be and toss it in the trash. This is the fate of the faceless masses. To by no fault of their own, be totally forgotten. And as such, perhaps, you are washed clean. Tabla Raza. You find the world anew. Or you lay back with the gas turned on and the burners to snuff you out.
And this is the point where the cliche of narrative departs from the path of rambling chaos that seems more in keeping with the present tense of the instant. If the chains of Marley’s Ghost do not chafe then one raises their head up high and looks for that comfort of tomorrow as another chance to find something that amuses. The tail is gone and a phoenix takes flight, if only for a few moments or two before the habit of the emotions comes back to reprimand one for the sin of forgetting. Perhaps we are all convicts condemned in our own court of law for a multitude of wholly human shortcomings? But the sentence past must be a willful attempt to violate the remaining strictures of the past however immoral an abandonment of what might have seemed proper and fit in sensible measure to what had come before. God help the outside world! It is a ramble forward into a dark closet without hesitation with a new hope of discovering that undefined nature. One that however unexpected may matriculate to where fate decries that bilious notion of lifelong intended destiny.