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August 4, 2002 leftovers again I remember the first time I refrigerated leftovers after the separation.  I was oddly elated.  Maybe the wilted-but-still-tasty salad was such an obvious metaphor for my life that it inflamed my smoldering soul.  Or maybe I was just hungry and relieved to find food in the fridge.  But I still experience a surge of resolve every time I eat my own leftovers.  It gives me a taste of continuity. On the other hand, there are thoughts that horrify me.  For example, the nagging suspicion that, if I could magically trade places with anyone in the world, I wouldn't do it.  Though I'd like to be smart, handsome, talented, and rich, the devil's quid pro quo would be the snatch of my peculiar essence.  I might miss my indefinable me-ness. But there is no magic, no real devil-dealing.  I'll never get the chance to miss myself and, consequently, I'll never know what I would miss.  I must find contentment in little things, like leftovers.

©  2002 by the beastmaster