Cusp

Sometimes it's actual nostalgia: a feeling that some ghosts from the past are still rattling chains in my head. Family times from childhood, places, songs, people. They sneak in with their compound memories, an echo of smells or photographs, of recordings or furniture. They are the husks of shed snakeskin, there and yet they exist only to show what has gone before. They are the moulds from which came the brass statuary of reality, and yet they are just plaster- broken. The shattered powdered mass cannot recreate the entirety. They are the abandoned burrows of earth-bound creatures, the shadows of objects in negative, removed from the sunlight.

Sometimes it's a feeling of nostalgia for that which may not happen, or just a daydream, slumbering in the possible or impossible future. Wistfulness is the warm outer-layer of hope, the maybe which keeps me placing one foot in front of the next.

Somewhere, between the past and the future, is where I hide- glaringly visible, and yet none of you here with me knows exactly where I've been or where I'm going. There are architects plans, the blueprints crackling in the breeze which lifts them aloft, sends them spinning crazily and unpredictably forward. The tumbleweeds left behind recede, rolling, bouncing into the ancient hills.