There's a place along the spectrum of lost and found
Where I sit with my legs dangling over
It's breezy up here, and the spectrum, like all spectrums
Is not a very comfortable ledge
It's not meant for sittng
You're not supposed to dawdle
You're supposed to keep moving along the line
But I've just gotten tired of being more or less lost
So I've sat down to dangle my legs
It is, after all, my spectrum
I guess you just die one day and they'll say things about you
Things like, "Lately he'd been a little out of sorts."
Another way of saying "more lost than usual"
Or things like, "He went around making people smile..."
Another way of saying "more found than usual"
The measurable degrees of lost
Sitting on one of them now, with my heels sweeping the abyss
We could just move the end called "Found" over here
But I'd know better, like setting the clock ahead 15 minutes to avoid tardiness
More lost today I think, certainly more than two days ago
I can barely remember my own name
The numbing cold of the lost has set in
I know I should stand and walk to where the found are mingling
I can hear their laughter, sometimes pink, sometimes blue
And always a long ways off
"I was just there", I think to myself
"Where the found are sipping mango tea or Dr. Pepper"
Going means leaving something back
Becoming less lost is always such a hard bargain
Here in the cold, it's only the impostors who sit and stay too long
And such quiet company, the lull of the distance, the cold breeze
I'm now one of them, a long way from the oppressive freedom of having been found
Where your heart beats on the outside of your chest
How I miss that weightlessness
And stripping down to the skin
What am I doing with these fools here in the cold?
Today... just hanging my heels somewhere, more... or less... Lost.