…and where am I?

Entering into the bureaucratic fray with my self, I thought, on the line, I discovered I did not exactly exist.

“I want,” I cried out into the winds blowing back at me, the spittled sounds thrown back into their esophageal source before they hardly passed the lips hoarsely whispered. “I want,” diminished into an unbearable, unheard, un-I-am.

“You are,” they told me each, who we say you are; a digit, a few numbers in a master main frame which writes checks each pay day, a contract for certain services. “You are,” I didn’t hear at first. “You can’t, cannot have,” grew inaudible at first crossing paths with my own, “I want” – then grew incessantly louder, bigger, encompassing my “I wants,” surging to a gigantism beyond my being.

I sat here licking wounds, my sheepish dog’s tail hanging down, wagging just so slightly to blow away the fumes of self’s fogging disappearance, trying to clear the air so I can see where I am, now, assess the wounds and other damages, and seek the places whose paths have not yet chosen to reveal themselves.