Just Words

Now with added sound.

Life is just a series of chance encounters, funny, that; poetry is just a series of idiots thinking they can sum life in so many words. These are just as not special as the next or the previous or the simultaneous and I don't mean to be cynical, but hasn't the world got better things to do than cater to the whims of its misbegotten children? We've already forgotten how it is to be. What we all knew when we were five and we were all five and that's what really brings us together, is it not? Like it or not, we're stuck here and we can pontificate however much we damn well please but it won't change the fact that we're stuck here and we can pontificate however much we damn well please. If you're picking up what I'm putting down.

It's melodic, the drifting of times. We've found ways to bend it a bit and reach in and live for a while in what we've learned to perceive as harmony, but we get tossed out all the time. That's called, 'This sucks.' There are a great many names for a great many things and it makes you wonder why 'it' makes you wonder why. What is it? What the hell is 'it'? And lighthouses rule, but here I still am, staring at the back of your hand, wondering when the hell it was that I got my voice back. Or lost it. It's wonderful, being able to talk with your hands, you know, and there's so much missing, but there's so much more there. It's like being able to read between the spaces between the lines; you're just reading the lines again in the end, but the point is that you've circumnavigated the way of thinking we've always counted on as real. And what is real in the end but just that- real?

There are those among us that have learned to plagiarise masterfully; these are the thinkers and they are always right when it comes to telling you precisely what it is that has been populating the vacant flats in the grey matter of their minds. Because, see, you can't be wrong when you're right. It just doesn't work. Of course, I'm sure there's someone who could twist it that way- and we think of it as a twisting process, but as long as you're made to understand at the end, things end up all neat and tidy and straight. Which makes you wonder just exactly what the process of twisting something means.

Which is why fans fascinate me; I would ask you to sit beside me and just let your mind spin, but unfortunately I've run out of things to say. Which puzzles me in the same way that the chip bags do- 'Betcha can't eat just one', was their claim. 'For how long?', was always my question. I'd found the loophole, see, the one thing they hadn't thought of in the finished product, but in the planning stages, I'm sure someone had figured it out. There's so much more behind everything, you see, because we're human, and our minds really go at it when we want them to. Or mostly when we don't. Which is the danger behind thinking. I'd love to be among those that don't, but here I am stuck with a sense of morality that tells me I shouldn't give up. So I guess I've made my choice.

I have no purpose here; I've always known that. If that's true, though, then that means my time is a gift. Time is always a gift because it's so precious, but my time specifically is the greatest thing I've ever been given. God put other people here. A handful of others were born from the earth itself. I've even seen people pulled out of other people (who were pulled out of them, and so on)- don't even try asking me how that works. But I'm here just because. Just as much as the single semicolon in each paragraph you'll find on this page- nobody decided, but neither did anyone without a body. No one thought they'd act on my behalf just as much as no one did for the semicolon, which does make me question the nature of a gift. Apparently, there's no need for a giver.

Then again, all of us exist a bit inside our dearest, just as much as these words exist inside of you as soon as you read them- that is to say, not at all, but just enough that it matters whether or not they don't. We all have a morsel of infinite loop in us. Perhaps that's where cyclicality comes into play; I've never seen it used productively anywhere else, except when making my life miserable. Regardless, I regard it as one of the things I hold in highest regard: Wordplay. Even the name for it reminds me of peanut butter. (Sticky, and a bit chunky and out of place, but comforting if you get it just right.) You'll forget this soon, though, as you're moving on through reality. 'Cause life is just a series of chance encounters- and there are a lot of them.