I used to have lists of things to do, written on crisp white sheets in a fine jotter. Then as each job was completed I'd score it off with satisfaction. A list of accomplishments to mark the passing days. Being a productive a measure of my purpose in life. Progress tallied on each fresh page. but now I spend ages searching for a pen, I had a second ago. If only I could find my glasses I'd stand a better chance. My new skill seems to be able to make things disappear instantly. Vital pieces of paper, phones, purses can all be magically transported. It's not restricted to material things either. My thoughts too have begun to delete themselves, like a hard drive wiping out sectors at a whim. I've begun to doubt myself, forget why I've entered a room and names have evaporated as well. I am being positive about the whole affair. I choose to think it is all about reaching a stage of detachment. Removing oneself from all without and even that within. Perhaps, I'll come full circle and will end up being the crisp blank sheet I once wrote on.
