He carries on his back the strange uneven shape of his hunger. It is ungodly in its weight and very awkward, and it stays with him, no matter the hour or the measure of his affinity for numbing resignation. He hungers not gracefully for something almost forgotten, almost faded from view. He is increased and limited by the strange uneven shape of his hunger, which he carries on his back like a burden from another place, like a stone with an imposing name, which cannot be put aside, which time cannot, must not, forget.

That hunger is the memory of all that he has been, of the people that have made him, challenged him, deserted him. That hunger is the filling of the furrows of a long, populous night of indiscretions. That hunger is wayward and sweetening, begetting all manner of troubling novel perspective, and beyond that, the tempations of enjoyment.

It is the central occupation of his every scattered instant of living, it seems, to contemplate what sort of immense incomprehensible generosity would be required of the person who might one day share this burden, lightening his life, giving him access once more to the luminous, flavor-filled side of existence.

© 2002 Joseph Robertson

 

A STRANGE UNEVEN SHAPE
JOSEPH ROBERTSON

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