Make Me, Maker

I’m from no place. Call me anything you want, but I won’t answer.

Can’t answer.

And if you’re calling me anything it means you have lots of things I don’t. Guts. Maybe a death wish.

Or maybe you’ve lost yourself.

That happens out here. Losing selves. A self is a slippery thing to keep track of. Always changing. Always different than it was when you last held it firmly.

I met someone once who was good at finding selves. In fact, or rather out of fact—neither matters, whether in or out—he was known for knowing which self belonged to who. He could figure and find when a self had gotten lost or, even better, whether it had been lost or stolen. Even, if it could be found out, whether the losing was on purpose or the stealing a random act.

I can tell you about him if you promise not to get confused. He is not you. To be clear, if clear is something I can be, he is no one else except exactly him. But in the telling, maybe I will remember a few things I am forgetting. Maybe you will forget a few things you are remembering. One can only hope. Or don’t hope. Yes, I suppose one can also only don’t hope.

Well, here then. I will tell you the story of the boy I think I knew. A story of how I found the finder and how he lost me in the end. Perhaps I will make up some parts. Perhaps it is all true. Perhaps perhaps perhaps it is you.

I’ll start, but not at the beginning. Beginnings are for people with someplace to go. And this, sweet fool, is going nowhere.