28 July 2007

Thirty years from now, when

I am settled in my own feelings of

Importance and Purpose (or

I have lost them altogether)

I might look back and say

"Summer of 2007, when I

signed my name in the corner of

books of poetry, philosophy (and

wondered if my children would ever see

the script as childish)

read and digested Rand, was

Unsatisfied, moved on to Nietzsche,

drank, smoked, and worked

in a Laundromat for low pay and

no respect, grew wary at new boys,

succumbed to familiar faces, envied

the way girls looked from across the room,

spent money and did not contemplate

The Future, ran around like a mad

woman, barely slept, searched for

Meaning

I was eighteen, decent health,

cramped handwriting and emotional

range, living for myself through a

glass of vodka and a ballpoint pen"

The best summer of my life?

The only sure thing right now is that

I cannot find a better term for

retrospection in the present tense than

"pathetic."