extraneous, i

There’s that safe old expression about waking up one day only to look in the mirror to see an unfamiliar face staring back. I contend there’s a different version of the story that involves getting hit by a figurative train only to survive to find whatever you once were propelled into the air several hundred feet. The old identity crashes to the ground into a million tiny pieces, offering up nothing the least bit salvageable. That shell of a person that remains has a sense memory for what once filled it and clambers to retrieve some semblance of what is recalled, but even the familiar pair of old shoes don’t quite fit right anymore. None of the steps they used to take feel appropriate, nor do any of the paths they have been travelling along.

The shell that I have become feels unfamiliar and extraneous. I have disappeared into the ether, but still retain the consciousness of whoever I was before. Sure, I too expect to know myself when I peek at the mirror, but am still surprised at my hairline, that extensive forehead, and these eyes that are starting to play tricks on me. Perhaps I have aged out of my own existence. Whatever I was before seems not to matter anymore. I have given up practically everything that interested me before. I don’t have the time or crave the time for it. I don’t know if I do anything to suit my own desires anymore. I only seem to choose things that boost, inspire, encourage, and please other people in someway. And that’s presuming a lot since I really feel incapable of maintaining any of my myriad relationships anymore. I just don’t have the energy to keep up with all of these people, their problems, or their minutiae. I feel like a pawn for everyone else to move around and place into whatever role they choose, or more significantly whatever roles are left over after they’ve chosen someone else in the place I thought meant for me.

I don’t think I really have a purpose or utility. For sometime I was a collection of things that represented life lived and that old proof of life. I have tried to whittle these down and focus more on memories as indicative of where I’ve been and what I’ve accomplished. This worked well for a while and I was even told I had a terrific memory. Now it seems as if erasing the past is the way to play this game. Looking back is all I get, however. As I search for a job I must constantly look backward to seize moments and phrases from thoughts and actions long gone to try and shine on paper. I do start to wonder, given the list of details about who I am, what I’m interested in, and the like, if I don’t sound more like someone I don’t know than my self.