Prophecy is a situation oft claimed in hindsight but a phenomena that one not dare to be believed in. For if one surrenders to more than it’s remote possibility, then one’s life has seen its own story’s end.
For years I had a repeating dream of being late to depart for the airport in a city not of my own and having too much luggage. The luggage in turn taken from a forgotten attic of a collection of everything that I once owned much of which I once treasured. All stored in a second apartment that I had long ago rented but had forgotten about. Forgotten somehow to pay the rent to maintain and now at the last possible instant had found that everything I had treasured had to be abandoned for I not longer had the resources or even the title to reclaim it. And I having no money but simply a ticket to return back to somewhere nebulous that I had the vague impression I should call home. These vague but all so familiar objects that were keys to unlock viable recall of so many misplaced chapters of my previous existence. Items that I had purchased. Many others that were handed down as a legacy. All to be abandoned out of expediency lest I miss my flight. And I caught somewhere between clinging to them desperately and an equal apprehension of being lost if I did not leave them behind.
I have been a poor steward of such things in allowing unconscious fancy to finally descend to waking and become reality. So much that I have carried at great expense to both myself and previously to that of my family now on the chopping block. Unacknowledged by the rest of the world and in some way much like myself, unloved.
How much must one lose throughout life as it progresses? Fields and plains once seeming endless and solid now found to be little cubicles housing once familiar objects the door of which is now open to those who decide that it must join the age’s dust. All the things that you once thought so important to pass opportunities for joy and happiness for simply slag to the rest of the world having no intrinsic value to anyone else. Just another load to the tip.
And then the question of where does one go alone? Caught on absurd journey’s across thousands of miles taken impulsively and now unable to return in time for what? Another ending? For what? Another goodbye. The asset of one’s many feelings no longer fit currency to tide one along in the increasingly indifferent world around one. The fallacy of being recognized, and respected by those outside one’s own family circle. And that ever ongoing steely truth of no longer finding love save in the dim reelection of an illusory past. All this floating like oil upon the waters in an ancient stagnant harbor that is so easily replaced in the course of new arrivals by sea. The past like a floater bobbing just below the surface thoroughly drowned and beyond saving.
So tomorrow in truth of actual fact the first step in these repeating dreams comes to reality. I must girdle myself hard and tight for the task of playing Solomon and sorting what there is worthy of keeping in a smaller more remote ever more volatile location. A vault that offers spare visiting privileges. One that punctures hope of any discovery by the world in light of earthly resurrection. This storehouse of everything that I threw myself at with all I had to offer at times in over-layered times but failed to launch into the air. My legacy merely to become irksome dust on some stranger’s mantle.