Inertia

(The Technicians, inserts from The Polaroid Family Tree, 2009)

Set forth your shadow, for we need not worry no longer.

A tired man sleeps at the footsteps of his son's house; inside is a family growing, living, and eating away their dinner, with smiles and half-mooned eyes. There could be no harm in their moment, but there is a man outside, not known to them, and will remain unknown once this man discovers his waking body on the steps of a stranger's house. He does not know of what happiness lies beyond those doors he sleeps in front of every Tuesday and Sunday, but he hopes one day he will be able to meet the faces that live just behind two inches of oak.

Holding his breast pocket, he feels the surface of a letter that has seen better days, that has seen too many days, and the old man no longer remembers what is inside this letter, nor why he appears on those steps twice a week for what has been a long time. The family within has taken notice of him, but chooses not to disturb him for this old man does not disturb them as he peacefully sleeps in his crossed arms, appearing to be waiting for something.

I have forgotten my keys, I can no longer open the door to your room, and it has been so long that your room is now a house, that there is now a family in there, and that I have pushed myself so hard and for so long, that I can't help the inertia that separates me from you. That I am sorry, of my many failures, of my many regrets, and of my many fears. I can no longer ask you for a spare, nor look underneath the welcoming rug for a way in, for I am no longer welcomed, and the mistaken man who thought he was a father is no longer, that a stranger now walks in his shoes, and clothes, posing as phantom. I ask nothing, and yet I am here, in front of your door, waiting for something, something not even I know exist.
I am here, right now, and everyday for you to banish me. And to forget who I wasn't, before you forget who I am.