Beyond.

Mayhap we've reached beyond our boundaries into what borders on riotous insanity. And perchance we'll never see it again, but maybe we will...maybe we will.

Wednesday 26 August 2009

Let's play a game of let's pretend. Let's pretend - let's pretend that these words are etched on stone, engraved, until they cannot be forgot. Stuck, written, placed in minds and memories. Think a thing and design it in words. Therein lies the beginning of remembering, once one no longer needs to remember.

In learning we hear, and we take. In writing we understand, and we give. Memory, spun from the failure of ink and wood pulp, placed by the individual, built for the masses, even if intended for individual alone. Once in writing a thing may not be forgotten, memory erased by time. Once in writing, this book is open the world to know.

The inconsequentials, the stories. The written word, left unheard and held by those whose voices remain silenced but for their own version of a sign language, thrown across continents and time, a span only breached by the exceptional. And now we're vanishing again. Into the summer mist. Fog. Jealousy.

Have you been jealous before? This knowledge, a knowing of feelings... I never wanted jealousy.

He's here.

I keep touching what his mind would say, and I wonder if he's still alive, because I don't hear the words much anymore. I don't hear much of anything anymore. Just a faint hum somewhere off in a distance that I know I'll never reach, since it keeps growing with every step I take. I will never be close enough to rescue my present, and the future is only words on a page. The past is what might be solid, if everyone else could remmeber. And I still have the makings of the best story never told.

Because there are pieces that I can never let go, and those pieces are too dear to try. I hold them, and I hurt them, and eventually I'll die bleeding from them. It's the way I built my other sides, and the way I heard voices from the time when I was young enough to know better. But I'm not the only one who hears the voices, and I won't be the only one to need rescuing from them. They bite, you know.

Sometimes hard, sometimes not. But teeth are teeth, and memories are dull as protection.