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A Phantom
How often do you come here, under the guise of an opportunity hunter? When do you find yourself half awake, living a dreamlike world of misappropriated reality?
And wonder. Just how, how did I get here. And how often is that song planted in your head? You know the one. The car, the beautiful wife, the house, the middle of the street. That infernal melody and obnoxious voice. But really, do you know who and where you are? How often do you feel lost, as if you could count the days you remember on your fingertips and they wouldn’t add up to the number of days your driver’s license says you’ve been alive. Or even driving, for that matter. How often do you stop. Look in the mirror. See those eyes, that nose, that freckle on your cheek and wonder. Just who do I think I am? What do I think I’m doing? And how long have I been in this body, in this place, talking to these people, living this life? Memory is a phantom. An old woman peddling an old bike on the beach. A child without any parents holding his hand, only staring into the clouds as a balloon dances away.
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