Back In The Stacks

I'm home from my first night at the bookstore I'll call "Borders". It's been ten years. For ten years I was a bookseller, and when I was killed in 1997 it almost terminated me. I dreamed for weeks and weeks that they'd call me back. Fellow booksellers were outraged (some were) and one supervisor tried her best to make my dream come true. To wake up and miss the place so awfully surprised me: I mean that these dreams bothered me so. To be sad about losing a job. Not typical of an alcoholic. Basically I couldn't be consoled. A year later I hit my lowest point and got sober for three years, going to school. This time for a 'trade'.

Now. Tonight. It wasn't until we all had to stand still as the manager set the burgler alarm, all these heart-memories flooded back. I miss certain people. But these are the same types of people. I could tell you the types. Maybe there are ten types of booksellers. But that is no comfort, none at all. In fact that part is nightmarish, these are strangers, new bodies, strange faces. They don't know me either. I am a mystery to myself , too, ten years older. The young women are not attractive to me, even.

More later. I am unable to sleep. It's like an episode of , I'm not sure, Life. You feel one way and then another. My strange life. Just for today, I'm feeling mis-placed but at home too.

not even going to re=read and edit this...