Sometimes
a memory sneaks up on me -

a memory of some period of time
wherein I felt as if my behavior 
or circumstance itself
deliniated the beginning curve of some
long-arcing parabola of life
stretching toward an anticipateable future that,
from my current vantage point,
seems fantastically improbable.

Nevertheless, while in the grip of such a memory,
I find my current circumstances disorienting.
A bizarre, dream-like version of what my life SHOULD be like
and I wonder,
how did I get here?

Eventually, the sensation fades
and I see the former circumstance as
a stillborn arc of time
destined never to fulfill its projected path
but to end abruptly,  prematurely,
and collect dust upon a pile of other half-circles
cluttered together inside my head.

It's not so much the circumstances themselves
but the anticipation 
(sometimes disguised as hope)
they create
that seizes me.

The knowledge
that I have had so many
myopic, mistaken moments of apprehension
gives me little hope that I truly know myself.

The completeness with which these memories sometimes take hold of me
causes me to fear
that I am the abortionist
and the dusty arcs of experience in my head
are my only progeny.

As if I posess some freakish notion
that I could hold back time
by never bringing
anything
to
conclusion