I Am, Really
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Poem:		42742
Whether it was better to have turned left instead of going ahead or to have spoken up rather than remain silent is yet a point debated only in those hours when I lay awake because of caffeine or stress and listen to the distant diesel engine of a train or the burbling emergency siren drift into my consciousness and then fade away. I have no answers. At least no encompassing ones to explain the events and influences that have produced who I am at this point in a life that is without either great accomplishment or devastating tragedy. Nothing remarkable to distinguish a singularity of purpose or any particular characteristic deserving of either celebrity or notoriety. I simply exist somewhere in the bell-shaped curve of the masses of western civilization. Indistinguishable in a crowd. Individualistic within bounds. A person apart only in the minds of the few whose pursuit of affection have been rewarded with a friendship somewhere beyond courtesy but in no sense intimate--save one.
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