I lay here in the area to the south of the area called as “Little Rock”. I slowly pick my choices, not as a minor but as a master of the realm. I’m not the master of this area. I never will be. I am a master of the realm overseas. A master of the realm over the seas. It sounds like much of the title of this area is one under the the foreign keys of November, of a time from long ago. And its true. I am likely never to turn back there again. So I turn back here to the land that never snugged me as a part where I have been before.
This was the turn of the year, for me. I left Dallas in June, on towards a land where I have never been. I have moved on towards a land called “Arkansas”, specifically towards a land called Little Rock. I’ve not envisioned myself in this land. Rather, instead, I have chosen to hide in the world of Little Rock, hiding in the closeted world. A world that I am meant to be much closer…and yet so much further away. To find myself hiding in a world of sunshine outdoors, and a world of deep darkness and despair indoors. This is a world of feeling of madness.
Or at least that’s how it feels.
I find myself shoved into a hold of non-novel blackness, and a warmish novel of warmish, content feeling of feeling of contentment. Not sure of which will keep me warm, and content much longer than the new is. The environment is strong and content around me. It feels new. It feels incorrect around me. I find myself once again feeing alone in the environment that I have manifested around me. How I feel in the world around me. I know the feeling is right to move. Yet, I don’t feel right to move around me. This is my home. Where I should feel quiet and compatible. Yet, I don’t feel at home here. Not yet, at least.
I don’t feel at home. Yet I am at home. I stop feeling at home because of what I feel. I feel at home, waiting for the power to become the God that I should be. Yet, knowing that I don’t feel strong enough to feel the stronger Gods within me, yet.
I am novelist of sorts. What I’ve written above. Its a bit of prose. A major part of me. A major part of who I am. And a part of who I am not. A rather small part of who I am. The large majority of who I am listed as is who I am. I have had a large portion of who I am. I am also a liar of undo truthing in who I am. I am who I am. I have written about myself in quite a few ways. And I have written in manners that tell the truth of who I am.
I have written of me. But what about what is not of me. What of the other side of truth. That is a tough side of the other side of truth. A side of truth that is found in manners that so very few of have found. And so very few have been known to be a part of. I have reached a potential of my age. At 56, I have reached a part of my age. An age where I don’t have a total part of my of my faculties. An age where my faculties aren’t exactly what I had hoped they would be. I hope that my strength of who I am is much stronger than I realize that I am.
So long, for this moment. I don’t know where this life is taking me, but it will be a delicious moment for my life. We shall see where it takes me over the next few days.