not sure how much more I should relate, in light of what has happened. The alphabet itself
is disassembling. Words and their components are merely symbols, after all; symbols rarely
represent what IS; thought, made less abstract, grows less obscure.
The idea of not being, for example—a stumbling block throughout my
mortal existence—has become, when pondered presently, no big deal. Nothingness and
'somethingness' are necessary foils; foreground needs a background or little
can be perceived. I
was living in fear of that which gives life definition, to the point of engineering my own
Did I, though?
Was it I who committed suicide, or was it my double?
The travelogue I've related has one loose end. A loose end, even
posthumously, can give an author pause. This one needs to be knotted before I write
Back in Lamu, at the Sunshine Guest House, you may recall, Yayuk saw my
doppelgänger in her mirror. There was no recurrence of this phenomenon, so
both of us allowed the matter to drop. But now that I see differently—The
Presence having made its Presence known—a theory comes to mind that may
If each of us, in truth, is twinned, might one outlive the other? Could
I be my reflection—extant and extinct—writing this in San Francisco,
Yayuk's loving husband looking backward, looking forward, reminiscing, playing seer? Might
not she have saved me, in the end, from my suicidal self?
It bears considering.
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