She’s a slob, a vagrant, a nameless wanderer, drifting in and out like so many chapters in a dream, occasionally a nightmare. She’s been aimless for so long, she’s forgotten if she ever had a purpose. Erratic and fickle, she’s a wayward soul, grasping for meaning, wishing she had one inkling where she was.
Someone once told her that if she got lost, she should stay put, exactly where she was until someone located her. It’s much easier to be found if you stay in one place, they insisted. She’s tried to stick around, take their advice, suspend her movements long enough to be discovered, identified again. It’s proven difficult advice to follow.
She’s observed that people love to offer unsolicited advice, especially to strangers. Perhaps there’s some innately altruistic compulsion behind their bursts of spontaneous wisdom; probably, they’re simply uncontrollable.
One summer, when she was young, she met a man under a railway bridge who emphatically shared with her the secret to a long, healthy life, which was as simple as “two packs of cigarettes & at least a full pot of coffee a day.” He swore, adamantly she’d live to be a hundred. Naturally, this prudent recommendation was difficult to believe, but much easier to follow than the aforementioned counsel.
Generally, she’s not a dreamer, but she’s been spending more and more time behind closed eyes imagining a better reality. It never seems like there’s much out there for her when she looks up, but she needs to believe in something bigger than herself. She needs to believe she’s wanted, that someone is looking for her, eventually she’ll be found, eventually she’ll know who she is.