The Metaphor

The Chinese Chest. It sat in the living room. It is long gone, its contents emptied. But they exist within my cranium, my memory, wherever it resides within. I try to remember it photographically, but the images are collaged, layers upon layers. The truth is not photographic; it is better. Photographs, we know, can lie.

My chest is small, yet large as the universe. It is mine. It is simple and complex. It is woven, it is mysterious. It is embryonic and random, not entirely making sense. I have had all these thoughts straying, vagaries, for years. Every time I go back anywhere, or repeat an action performed before. I see the layers, like a painter who layers oil, then scrapes, then adds another pigment and scrapes again. The stories become burnished with their layering and love. And that is the other thing. That quest for acceptance, for love, but not on anyone else's terms but my own. In the end, what you catch is the inner sanctum of one person's experience. How interesting is that? How universal is my truth? That has to be for you to know. I think of what I hear on the radio, "this much I know is true."