REMOVED from Time

Prologue:
In my last blog, I shared that a sudden, five-day Existential Crisis had gripped my mind—and was ultimately resolved by a profound spiritual excavation. Many of you may have wondered what sparked that sudden descent into my own history. It was this poem, which generated a raw feeling of disconnection, anger, and departure. This is the very mirror that forced me to look deeply inward and onward.

The Poem:
"Moved by the Times, Moving with the Times, Removed from Time"

I woke up from over-sleep
& felt something amiss.
Perhaps it’s something I missed, dismissed,
or maybe I’ve been missed.
But nothing’s been missed,
and I missed nothing;
yet, something still seems missing.

I see no people to the right of me:
No right-hand man, no Misses Right,
Nothing to set right or write about,
and that’s all right…
but there’s still some people left.

But what is left is either left-out, left over,
too far left, Left up to me –
it’s better left alone.

Walking with no one,
yet someone is carefully matching my stride.
But those by my side, on my side,
and those who I side with, friendship aside,
they may co-in-cide, but man,
they don’t go-in-side.

Friends flashing memento-mirrors
aimed at my reflection.
Introspection:
What I see and what I am-
stand for some correction.
So if my favorite affections
seem to favor some neglections;
there’s just a dis-con-nec-tion,
in my recollections.

P.S.
Thinking of all the endless by-the-ways,
the ways gone by, the days gone awry,
the phased-out lives,
all my lost but not forgotten allies,
that emphasized, and thoooose other-wise.

So, if I ever forget to say goodbye;
Don’t wonder why, sigh, or cry.
You see, I found a way to get by that.

Because I’m-
“Moved by the Times,
Moving with the Times,
Removed from Time.”
…with just a state of mind.

Epilogue:
Looking back at these words from the other side of the excavation, I no longer feel A Lack Thereof, but a stillness that is INDIFFERENT to whatever grains of sand remain in the hourglass. Yeah, the "Yellow Stickies" still sit around the table, but they are no longer ghosts—they are just postscripts to a life that has found its baseline.

P.S.
Consider a man adrift in the currents of his own history, suspended between yesterday and tomorrow. He believed he was merely writing a poem—prophetically unaware that the title was an existential map destined to provide the exact coordinates to his final destination.

B.P.S. Inward, as always… From the Lookout Post