The Words Back There

Been up since 4am, give or take.* The day has gone on like a wet sock: with flustered exertion. Various inopportune events impeded a (insert Folgers theme song) smooth transition to the other events in minutes and hours that we call days. We being you, the reader, and me being the words back there. Actually, this is understated, from the conception of the morning, the day has been fighting me, throwing things at me, blocking happiness or whatever counts as below happiness but not unhappiness, even keeled maybe? Not this morning. I was actually up before 4am. The mind was turning thoughts over, running scenarios of various levels of doubt and mindful mayhem for fitful, fake sleep. Angry at the approaching day, angry at the mind I call mine, angry at the doubts that don’t really appear to be mine; they appear to be placed in their from some unrelated homunculus that while, in my head, does not seem related to me. Homunculus, good vocabulary word. The words back there.

Why can’t you be more like Nelson Mandela?* Why can’t you not hate yourself the way he didn’t hate others. You haven’t even been as bad to yourself as others were to him. Did you ever imprison yourself? Isn’t it a little stupid to compare yourself to Nelson Mandela, dare I say some sort of subconscious egotism. Perhaps you actually think more of yourself by putting yourself in the same sentence as Nelson Mandela* Isn’t this analogy breaking down? Or is it a metaphor?

When is lunch?

Mistakes were made no doubt. Any successes to speak of? Oh sure, now you are going to play the success is relative card. To your advantage or to your detriment? Either way, might you apply that relative argument to the mistakes, to your advantage or detriment? Do you even know what an argument is? Hmm, I used the word argument in the sentence above. I provided context, a reader (you, yes you) might perhaps deduce [do you, no I, you are the reader, do I mean induce?] the definition of argument. So I do. At least in form if not content, no I’m asking. 

Talk to me, yell at me, define me, aren’t t you the context? The words back there, those words are me, they are all you have of me; treasure them and make sure they last into the future, immortalize me. The words ahead?

We need a whole new way to think about this. Why ain’t I smart uhnuff to figger a new thought?

*it is now 9:31am on 5/2/2014 and counting

*This sentence

*An argument is a series of statements consisting of a premise and/or premises and a conclusion.

The Trampoline

You find yourself aloft; in the air with gravity pulling you down, down, down, quickly and without mercy. And there is a brief joy before the fear of falling arrests you and pulls your eyes and spirit down to view your fall. Below, you see only blackness in an instant. Are there edges? There are edges but they won’t help you. You are falling. Fear fills your lungs, blood rushes to muscles for futile flexes and actions. But you land and it is soft and curves to you, fits you, tensions you and holds you at the bottom of a pendulum for as long as you both are permitted before, before, before you are thrown again into the air to reach an apex you will also hold as long as you are permitted. You are not permitted to not fall and rise; fall and rise you must. Fall and rise you will. Others crowd the trampoline, thrown onto it just like you. Fall and rise they must. You are not alone. The conditions are finite, there are bounds and there are edges, the means for survival are limited. Do what you must for fall and rise you must. Make way make room, over the edges spills the possibility of the impossibility like the organic from the inorganic, like the consciousness that devours fate; the choice that renders no future choices. You have been secreting time rising and falling, projecting a future in the context of your past falls and risings. The bounds the edges are the light beyond the blackness of one sort to another.  Joys and fears inform your future; both joys and fears certainly not one or the other. This existence (or is it life?) won’t admit a forced dichotomy. How long has it been? The rising and the falling? Avoiding the edges by recognizing them? How discrete how fractured how contiguous? The edge nears and that horrible birth made the edge real from the moment of one birth and all births. Over the edge you will spill and neither rise nor fall but neither rise nor fall you must. Your ownmost possibility which cannot be outstripped of neither falling nor rising awaits; you know it. You see it and feel it you projected the final projection. The rising and the falling went where? To nothing? You may despair and you may holler “love, love, love!” and let the words spill over the edges but you may not rise and you may not fall and your voice will quiet and meekly grow hoarse and go absolutely, darkly, sweetly… with relief…silent.