How could I be lost?

Every day is a hunter’s perch
    when we crouch in the center of our lives
    weapons of doubt and self flagellation
        locked and loaded
space is easy—terrain and landscape marred and scarred by
    choices to build or demolish

it’s time that’s elusive
    at exactly what point did I become committed
        to being
        who I am
what day was it
    what was I wearing who did I know where did I live
    what had I eaten for breakfast
    when I decided to
            or not to
        be
        or do
            that which locked me into this place and this time
on the perpetual center of the turning world
    I can only see the space
    380 degrees in all directions
        the past and future
        point to one end
        which is always here
            always present
how could I be lost
   

(a few sentiments borrowed from TS Eliot’s Four Quartets — a stronger and more complete meditation about our impermanence and memory)