Wow, the silence is deafening.
I am thinking about good and bad, or the perception of events as Good or as Bad. I recently read the terriblest of cliches in a new quote form "happiness writes with white ink" and while I get terrifically annoyed with that old saw, there is some truth in it. Who said it, I don't know.
Sometimes in my memory the earth slopes or sags under me like a comic drawing where in extreme moments the sky is black and the earth has broken into islands from which we shake fists and throw thunderbolts. But I know the earth wasn't quaking or the planets aligning in any moment I might pause to recall. Fer instance, I acutely remember that at my brothers wedding the earth tilted rather precariously to the south west but that the champagne toast did not spill over at all.
So much for the reliability of memory. Really, contrast is the only thing that stands out. The acreage between me and you like generations of fields grow, die, grow, die, clouds gather and disperse, a river carves a canyon, but we are like six inches apart from each other the whole time, and pissed off. That moment someone flicked a penny at me on the plaza stands out. Pausing to open the gate across a dirt road. One lunch hour during sixth grade. I have simply reacted to the wounding sting of these single moments. That is all it comes down to. A life shaped just like that.
There are no purely good moments in my life because they are at all times compromised by inevitability each time I exhale. Death and decay is in every single metabolizing cell. If all my business living were free of this divine dualism I might run and run and run without the sluff of my day, the exhaust fumes, time clocks, dehydration, sugar spike, foot fracture, sore ankle, the desire to quit and die softly on the couch. I still have bargains on the table in which certain instances permit me to smoke again, deeply into my lungs. Terminal illness, paralysis and prison. Those are my terms. But even yet I would imagine Hope because deep down I know I am only my worst moments.
I sometimes think in absurdist prose, like, if I had a million years in a vacuum to add numbers in my head I would eventually become intuitively sublime in my counting skills, would I not. How deeply could one become submerged in a discipline until they found only truth? What a meaningless thought. But it spans out meaningfully in suspended moments.
If I ran without the peripheral trauma of daily life I would become swift and unyeilding until eventually running was as easy as levitation and even later still I would start at the same place I was going to.
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