The Art of Being Gone

Invisible Man   

I know it's time to get started because no one has noticed I'm missing.  The psychological pressure of being in transition has always resulted in my disappearing, and when I disappear people speculate as to why.  But no one ever asks.  No one checks in.  And all at once I'm back where I began.  My relevance is in my aptitude for being irrelevant.  Oddly, that's when I'm happiest.

When I disappear, and they turn away, I emerge.  Daily routines fade.  The structure of schedule becomes unnecessary.   The unconscious patterns of thought that accompany the anticipation inherent in anything dependable, disburse.  Life no longer has a path to follow, or a map as a guide.
Spontaneity appears.
And uncertainty.
When you wake in the morning there's no script to follow, and when there's no script your eyes widen.
You enter the day without knowing what to expect.

Apprenticeship

As a boy, I'd take my dog and walk into the foothills behind our house.  With the exception of two friends, a bus ride was required to see anyone, or go anywhere.  Our television got three channels, and none were clear.  And we couldn't afford many material items.  Walking killed time, and freed the mind.  Back then, as now, when I left no one noticed or came looking.

I learned how to forget time.  Schedules and routine provide comfort, and order  They're necessary to a society.   But they choke the mind.  They confuse it.  They sell themselves as 'real life' so persistently the mind believes it.  Until they're removed.  When they're removed the mind returns to its post and stands watch, and becomes acutely attuned to every nuance, startling or tranquil.   When the mind isn't occupying itself with a falsely promised future it awakens to what's around it.  The most common items, and events become original, and the entire fabric of life feels different.  It's more welcoming, like it missed you.

In my twenties I went on a six week bike ride through parts of Oregon, Idaho, Wyoming, Montana, and British Columbia, and the same thing occurred, only deeper.  The further I rode from what was labeled, the easier it got to name things.  If I was tired, I rested.  If I was hot, I swam in a river.  If I was comfortable, I stayed where I was.  Some days I rode ten miles, others a hundred and fifty.

As long as I honored the prompts of the world, and balanced them with my center, I was consistently happy.  And despite it being a journey of solitude, I never felt lonely, or homesick.  I have tried, on numerous occasions, to return to that balance through the years.  Never successfully.  It only appears when other things disappear.  I've met others who knew it, and tried to return to it, as well.  They couldn't either.

Reflection

I don't know what's real anymore.  Maybe nothing, maybe everything, maybe just the night, I don't know.  I'm certain, however, I've worn two conflicting perspectives about the world, and experienced two different methods of being in it.  I can't claim to know which is the object, and which is the reflection.  I just know one fit, and one didn't.

I've found what I felt on the road, and in the foothills, within the sputter and stall I'm in now.  It's telling me it's still there if I want it.  It can be found anywhere.  I want it's depth and simplicity and clarity, but I don't know how many more times I can vanish.  There are people I love, people who compose me.  I know that's real, now that I've felt it.  Time to live in both worlds, I think.  Time for Clark Kent and Superman to come clean.

Waiting for Superman...