A comfortable clutter occupies my home office, all memories that have been recently placed with calculated effort to recapture an otherwise lost civilization. I am settled here. I find solace in this room, wall to wall shelves of books beside books upon books, plants, boxes of framed accomplishments, papers, notes, odd trinkets and mementos.
I should go to bed, but sleep is a painful process. It is not something I look forward to. Unexplainable pain throughout my body. Racing mind. I have to sleep on top of the covers with a thin blanket draped over me or I feel like a body wrapped in an ace bandage.
I know there was a time I felt different, because I’ve got friends who tell me so. But I face the past like a bug faces the windshield of an oncoming car. I don’t really have the time to reflect before I’m hit with the notion that my past is either fiction or belongs to someone else. Maybe I'll just sit here for a while, stare at all the books on the shelves. There is a certain comfort in that.