Once upon a time, the event known as time had ceased to exist; and time was confused for the lack thereof, the event of time had perhaps stopped or had a glitch,
not unlike those found in many mechanical functions of existence, and the ones who were aware of this illogicality were far past the absurdity of the event and measured their miscalculations of
the past as subjective stretches of absence of reasoning mechanisms and interpretation.
I was a up and coming philosopher at this non-time, and I stood at the doors of the university for an undefined period which either lasted or did not last but I
knew that I had to do something and my uneasiness neither quickly nor slowly caught up to me because I had to make something out of nothing (again) and I did not know if I had the time to do this
quickly or slowly, so I did neither – I just was and my reckoning was both a vacuum and a void and after no time at all, it didn’t exist in quantifiable ideology so the amount of uncountless
frequencies were misplaced and my diagnosis was senseless.
I affectionally pronounced my new rank as superhero and was distracted by a redneck on a cellphone, sunburnt, unshowered with flip-flops screaming into here
scratched cellphone and I turn the car around and I parked behind the Albertsons and I was angry at the language I spoke and the words we took as an expression of what was important.
This is where we won't begin.
You are here.
This is where we won't begin.
In the middle.
In the middle we begin
This is the story of the end
As every ending – begins again
This is a story maybe
I live deep down town but I don't get out much anymore
So if you want me
Then why don't you come find me anyway
This is a story
Have I told you my side of the side?
If you start reading here
You will not get lost without me
If you start reading here and I am writing what you are reading here – I have combined these words in for you to read my story so that you are part of my story -it
wouldn't exist without you now would it? - and therefore you will get as lost as I am telling the story and you will get lost (and found with me) because I am telling the story to you as much as
you are in the story with me – my side of the story – my side of the mountain – our interpretation and we are lost and found and everywhere in between.
I wish I had something to write about but instead of being insincere and simply writing to read the letters of my own words, I couldn't think of why I wanted to
share my side of the misery. Longing for the sky to fall, I lifted my arm to the way you watched me speak and never gave me a nod of understanding
Immediately following my invitation to let the consequences of my rather superfluous choice not to contend, the concrete static of discontent wrapped it's cold,
barren arms around my barren neck and vanished; I struggled in the sudden constraint of the cape that had fastened onto my indolent essence and detached from the barriers of the science
concerning cause and effect, an anticontender – (TBC)-
Chances and leaks and writing your choices of the combinations led to another late Saturday night of places I had never been. Chances broke me again.
The combination was sickening anyway, a new insistent tone reverberated from your eyes, you mistook my gaze into your eyes as some invitation. My mind slapped my
tongue thankfully and I said calmly, “yes, it is just what you think,” and your laughter replaced the pause which I was certain to be the next sequential step in a series of my stupid unrehearsed
preconceptions, and I knew that all of them could see right through me.
“INVITE me,” I could have drawn the awful metallic glaze in my mouth and throat as the result blinked at surrounding stragers with no self-conscious mystery or
knowledge – how does a transition find a move to jerk itself into it's next position? I thought myself tired of being the comfort seeker.
I had to present my current options to myself. I smiled for a moment and felt my tear ducts moisten with the humour of my split second thought of perhaps developing
a powerpoint presentation to myself thematically representing the options I would need in order to effectively communicate myself to myself. But yes, I had to take inventory, dreadfully tense
because I had not done so in centuries and accurately and honestly, maybe never to one.
“Invite me to leave,” I shook as I stood and waited there.
The early morning sunrise was our timebomb and we revolted as the rays were in demand, regardless of what had happened so much sooner and days were missing you and
you didn't know.
I knew Max hadn't meant to die that summer evening. It wasn't intentional. But hell, that was seven years ago, and I never meant to live this long.
The revolt lasted no time at all
Balance?
“How would I describe it?” I repeated the sentence in the form of a question; I had no idea if it was an inquiry until I did so. I have heard how bad thing were on
the other side of the words, but because I knew I'd never get there, I didn't have to go fast. The words were in my head, the sentences took cover next to the rickety pass that was our only blind
alley.
It was like a passive sentence unlike any that preceded it; it was the passive sentence changed every chaotic energy in my mind; my universe was cosmically
reinvented and life depended thereafter, on what it meant, how, shy... every letter became mislead, every thought would never die, but swoon and flutter in a polite apology, the questions
maintained sober appearances and it startled you at times that you existed and you were in the moment when you were active, and you were the subject and you were rolling along; but yeah when you
were passive, you were cool too.
The difference.
I realized that this was the point in the game, I had options.
“what is it like to be like you?”
I meant to go this far, but you never intended me to.