In a strange land, in my old home.

Mornings find me awake at the same time as my elders, trying to find a reason to be up aside from drinking coffee and touching fingers to keys in order to touch base with those far, far away. The setting that surrounds me - all familiarity and ease yet so foreign and demanding of effort so as to be comfortably lived in - representing the years of my life: a crack in the wall older than my niece by at least 8 years, a coke stain on the carpet from the time when I laughed too hard at a friend's joke, notebooks filled with the scribbles of a young, naive, hopeful wordsmith, photographs of the future-less deceased alongside framed snapshots of new life and new prospects for the future.

Can a person ever move through time without difficultly? or does the shift from now to then and back again always cause slight fractures in the spirit that can never be repaired? If one moves constantly in their mind - daily, hourly- and also dwells physically in what once was but could never be again does that mean they are forever disconnected from all that is here and now? or is it possible to realign onesself with the idea that present is all that there is...