I have written two memoirs
both of them written and published
online with no print version likely.
Both of them are about the life I had
when how I lived was set by my parents.
In them I relate in sequential detail
as many experiences as I remembered
from being a child sent hither and thither
through to the more self directed existence
I was meant to have in my mid-twenties.
To write about feeling as if I were invisible
to feeling that I was an alien felt like progress
when I put it all into words. But as it was lived
that life felt more like patiently moving sideways
away from the past than living a forward looking life.
I have started writing about life
after being an alien, I have not got
a nickname for the person I was next.
Perhaps he was the stranger, the misfit
and the outsider who drifted
from one landscape and 'community'
to the next, who never fitted in any of them.
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