Wasted

I have been described three times in my life as something not fully of this world, an angel more or less. Other times, to many to count, the very hand of God, coming at the exact moment that nothing but that could have saved them. I’ve yet to know what to make of it, how to deal with the accusations.

There are times when I do in fact feel it. Disconnection. Lost to myself and the world. Only from this I am always snatched, always brought back, harshly almost, into the dim thriving of life. It’s purpose we all seek. Purpose that I have lived out so many countless times. But really, it brings no satisfaction save the dim thrust every now and again of joy.

In my dreams I am immortal, living on through the ages with ever growing wisdom and strength. My hand at the same time touches kindly and lovingly the leaf from a twig and the soft hair of a child’s head, both wet with the same dew. In my life, I grow older by the hour and think, perhaps this is what eternal is, perhaps it all ends with me.