an unfamiliar face

May 30, 2012

Dearest Clara,

I have boarded a bus bearing west—the only one that runs out of that town of ours: the E5. As I moved to sit, I wondered if the little old man behind the wheel recognized me. My dear, please understand: along this journey I am to take, I do not mean to resurface amongst the lives of any aside from myself, but I cannot deny those tiny grits of recognition sticking itself in the corner of my eye as I pass through this narrow history. I did not recognize the driver, nor have I recognized anyone since I first set foot toward the unfinished puzzle under the arbor beams of that empty church—the grit seems lodged not in certainty, but rather in a thousand blind grasps.

If I create my own history, what can I term delusion? “Perhaps succumbing to another’s history,” you once suggested.