Friday, February 19, 2010

I can't really talk about it

As I must inform you it has now been thirty-one years. In the first few I knew no better. As time passed I felt it I knew it I needed it. So the story goes. Try to think back, back to a time when there was no time, when time was silent, invisible, never passing nor receding, a place where purity wasn’t an option only a thing. I will give you this. It did exist. It is true; but the purity would never exist if not for corruption. The cycle gains momentum, rolling downhill, a manor of gravitational pull. At what point if any does it loose momentum or revolve around another time or place? Once something is stolen it will always be stolen. Even if it is given back, it was still stolen and will never regain its original luster. A time when the light was shining, a place where you once felt safe, lost, stolen and blocked from view. I can now say I see it, an existence where purpose is not mandatory. One must only function within the realm of the white room. In what you believe the room has many colors, shapes, doors, endless expansions, even a purpose. White is enjoyable. Through it you see nothing; you feel nothing you are nothing. Below you, you cannot see, you do not feel, you are. Please don’t get me wrong here I can settle for less than perfection. I alone live here. Sure there are others out their, but this is mine. I will mold it and compress it, until there is another option. Please forget the letters that create me, they are no longer useful to you. When you imagine a hole do you see the whole or a hole? I must confess it is very hard to tell the difference. Over a given period of time how much do you really remember? I ask you this, because does it really matter? When it is gone, it is now transformed into electronic pulses, waiting to fire once again to prove that they still do exist. Once fired a recreation of the past forms internally, sometimes creating water. When the water dries up I scrape the salt into a container for resale some day. Nothing creates something. What is this nothing that bothers me so? I can hardly believe the nothing is so powerful that it affects everyday life. I cannot eat without nothing interfering, I cannot sleep without nothing, I want nothing. In a world of everything I want nothing to leave so I can regain nothing. I now concentrate on smaller tasks. Yesterday I made friends with a fly for an hour and a half. He must have mistaken me for something. When it all breaks down I will rebuild it. Is it wrong to stop? A test if you may, an experiment with time. This small process seems impossible to stop.

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