My Other Self

 

My other self lives in in a small, friendly village, not because here is objectionable, because it isn’t, it is just that he finds comfort in a place like that.  There, he has grown into an adult, but then has stopped.  He has never grown old and is never without pocket change.

His age never consumes his every thought.  It has not manifested itself into places that hurt, or has generated pain that constantly fights for his attention.  He is free to think without the weight of being.

There are books where he lives.  Some have been written, rewritten and polished beyond all requirements, while others have been hand-written, using pieces left from somebody’s pencil, or from scratchy pens found on the playground.  There are fingerprints on pages, in chapters where lunch was enjoyed and stories told with feeling and truth and a little grape jelly.

My other self wears shoes that never give out, are forever comfortable and ask nothing of him.  He has attended school but learned from life itself.  He is inwardly aware, while continually discovering what should have been apparent.

My other self enjoys your company and doesn’t mind being picked last for anything. He eats the wrong foods, fails to exercise and can become lost following his own footprints.   He has both a dog and a cat, with neither being a favorite over the other.  No meeting nor hurricane prevents him from feeding them on time.  He understands their dependence.

Like me, he writes of time and feathers.  Without fear of heights, he paints with lofty words, while letting someone else have the more comfortable chair.  My other self asks for nothing in return and always tips his waitress.

Just every now and then, I’d like to be more like him.