of dates and other specifics

The specifics do not work for me. They are not my mapping tools. That said and out of the way, I ponder, what is it exactly that acts as a marker for me. How do I locate my origin and weave the rest of my reality around it? Some days, it’s the feel of it, on most days I think, it’s the feel. It  is my navigator, my compass. And then on other days, when the feel is lost and I am out on shallow, feel-less, flaky ground, I rely on the smell and the stench of it (after all, it would be safe to assume that a feel-less day can definitely not be smelling great). The stench of fear, anguish dot the entire expanse and guide me through the day. And then, there is the anticipation of tomorrow, that sometimes gets you past today and even a couple of days, months and years…the waiting for a day filled with feel and aroma, a day which does not require a guided tour, pointers…because you don’t wade past such days, you inhabit them, fully. You wear out and live in each moment, lest it pass by untouched. These days, they don’t add up to a journey, they are the destinations.