I could live in Ireland… somewhere near Cork. I could have some out of the way shack where the postman doesn’t deliver mail to my house because of a number but because he knows my name; Aiden Cawley. I would fill my stove with moss and keep myself warm during the cold months but during the summer on the 67th straight day of dark clouds and rain, I would make my way out to the city and see some semblance of my memories as a young man moving away from home and finding myself the first time. I would be at a pub, and the 3rd round would be mine before leaving.
I would go home, smoke my pipe, listen to the radio interview of the 15th Dalai Lama speaking of her childhood in the country I forgot. And at some point, during the night, in front of the fire that is burning wood for the special occasion (because I like to listen to the pops and crackles) I would stop breathing in my sleep. Then all those things I was supposed to forget will come back, (not that I ever really forgot them, but that’s my secret), and I would look down with childish curiosity and pick again which experience, from start to finish, mapped out completely, will be mine. And the veil will fall again, and I will forget.
I think i would like to be a woman next time, born into an agnostic and intellectual family only to see if Tiresias was right.
And I will be curious, with thick socks and boots and a backpack as I discover for myself what others have already penned to paper.
I am me 