Some things are easier to find than others.
Where do you start looking when you’ve lost your mind? The last place you’ve been? Everywhere you’ve been? In the “found” column of the newspaper? Do you start going through the junk drawer? Do you rummage through your purse? Do you rummage through someone else’s purse? What about in the laundry room on top of the dryer with the pile of loose change that came through in someone’s pockets? Could it be there?
Could it be with the last person you talked to? Could it be with your mother?
My mother would ask me, “Where did you see it last?”
Of course, I’d have to say: “I’ve never seen it.”
“Then how do you know what you’re looking for, silly?”
Good question, mum.
I do know what my life looks like without a mind. It’s like an elephant when all his family has been poached for ivory—bereft and grieving.
It’s like a hungry vulture, no carcass in sight, no corpse to pick.
Like a newborn with no teat.
Like melted ice cream.
Like nails, but no wood.
Like salt with no lick.
Like lime with no salt.
Like bread without butter.
Like summer heated blacktop and feet without flip flops.
And no cool grass for the toes to walk in.
Like a Monday.
Like broken crayons.
Like grey sky scenes, and uninterrupted views.
Like restless heavy-metal heartbeats.
Like a tornado too far from a trailer park.
Like a poet minus a muse.
Like a crow waiting weeks for a road kill.
Like a simile without an analogy.
Like a micromanager with no nit to pick.
Like an explorer in a discovered country.
Like soccer and basketball.
Or basketball and soccer.
Like an advertising agent, or a marketing person, or a hermit: all out of touch.
Like agents in general.
Like a terminal illness.
Like horror without a scream.
Like comedy without a laugh.
Like a narcissist in a conversation about someone else.
Like trying to make distorted feedback off an electric guitar, without electricity.
Like me without you, my friend.