Time is an anomaly in here - Some days I'm here in the restaurant, and others I'm reliving a memory. Memories better kept dormant, like a cancer ticking away as if it were a time bomb. A place to store the bits and pieces of my life, until I can decide how to deal with them. A place to vent. I'm sure I have so many things in my past, but what I have is too many to put into any single narrative or even list. Here I can remember - sometimes.
A place to remember. For if my life has passed and no record remains of it's being lived. My life might as well have been one of millions, as I exist now only in a world of fantasy.
Where I store a life. I have a choice; tell the truth. Live and die. Or lie. But for whom, if not me. I have one record - that's all the history I know, and I choose to tell it. Some day, when the moment comes, I will take a knife and slice a part from the record. I'm not sure what that part will be, but I will know when the moment comes. A place to remember. In here, in the moments, in my mind. But the moment will come.
I work the register in a fog, dazed but still conscious; sometimes I can think clearly, other times not so much. I think in a fog, dream in a fog, have flashes of lucidity and clarity, and all of it is in between. But I do the work I do, and if people like what I'm doing, then that's fine with me. But I don't have a life.
Not anymore.
A Life of Work and Dreams,
And Dreams of a Life,
Until the Moment Comes,
And the Moment Comes.