A new take on part of an old poem.
Original post: https://thedirectact.wordpress.com/2010/10/06/still/
I’m still seeing-
Childhood memories played back in my mind’s eye like all the home videos on VHS. I see countless pictures that decorated bedrooms and halls, myself no more that a tiny tot, upon my aunt’s knee, Mr. Cool they called me with sunglasses that dwarfed my tiny head. Still I study the ornate doorknobs, the flowers painted on the second floor hallway walls, a bedroom cast in moonlight and street lamps peering through windows illuminating the chaos and brilliance of a creative youth, priceless doors ruined, splattered with paint, covered in duct tape and photographs. I still peer into the deep chasm of my home, like the laundry chute, I see myself peering down into it from above, myself down below in the darkness only this little square in the distance, before my younger self closes the chute and all is dark. I’m still seeing in the dark, my home, like I always had, pensive walks back to my third floor bedroom, please no vampires, please no more morlocks behind a door, around a corner. I had a sense about this place for which I had no need of eyes or ears nor nose nor taste nor touch. I was at home absolved of all my senses I was. And now absolved of home I have only sense enough to find another.