MIDDLE EIGHT
1/25/03. 5:07am CST. Home. Or elsewhere, elsewhen.

The only thing I don’t know is when I arrived.

This path. When did I move onto this one?

Along that highway in 2000? 1988? In my sleep, on that couch, in 2001? At the hands of that armed madman in 2002? On my way to work, that day in 1987? Or even further back in the past? The bridge in 1970? Before that?

Which of my memories are even true? I’m confident that if I can find the exact crossover point, I can rejoin the original path. The path I should be on right now. The other road, whether on it or at the end of it.

This place... I know it is not real. It is a creation of my battered mind, my fouled imagination, an invention of my wandering subconscious. I know that none of this is real, but I cannot help pretending. I go through the motions, knowing my actions mean nothing.

The faces all look familiar now. The patterns repeat. The names change. Sometimes. The actions change, but not enough to matter. The cycle is always the same. This place is all mine. And I have run out of ideas.

I am not having a midlife crisis. I am having a midcrisis life.

I have been here as long as I can remember, and I will be here as long as I can foresee.

From every point on this continuum -- that word again -- from every point I see the same thing, no matter which direction I look.

I learned long ago that it does not matter which direction I follow. There are no ends. The path is neither linear nor circular. It is both.

I was here long before you arrived, and I will be here long after you are gone. Your path crosses mine, but they are not parallel. Companions arrive, we pass the time together, and they move on. I have seen so many come and so many go that I should have long since ceased making emotional connections.

But as cruel as it can be, I have not allowed myself to abandon such connections. It is a constant source of sadness, but I will never give it up. It has made me strong. Stronger than you can possibly imagine.

In this place, I cannot sleep, nor can I wake. I am attached to everything, and adjacent to nothing.

Everything happens at the same time, but nothing ever happens. This is my path, and if nothing else, I have... gotten used to it. I know all of its secrets, and all of its pitfalls. From time to time I throw myself, deliberately, into one of its traps, simply for a diversion. I need this variety to keep me from simply stopping in my place on the path.

If I stop, we all stop. Everything stops. I do not know what that is like, and I do not want to find out.

So I will stay on this path. Always. I know that none of this is real, but I must go through the motions. I do not want to worry you. This is something you cannot change. I am someone you cannot change.

I am not who you think I am. And I am not what I seem.

But you can trust me. Trust me to know you better than you think. My perception is so strong, so clear, that when you lie to me -- which you do regularly -- not only do I know you're lying, I also know the truth you're not telling. I do not hold this against you.

You, on the other hand, will never know the truths I conceal, for I have developed a talent for keeping The Truth inside. The pieces of this puzzle are all around you, but only I know how they fit together. And I will keep that knowledge to myself. It is for the best. What I know is a burden you could not carry. But I can, and I will.

In this place, I see all. I know all. And I can do all.

Except find my way back to wherever I'm supposed to be.