In which I lost my mind

I’m the talkative type. I like to hear myself. I like to be heard.

I desire a look of interest. A moment… of intent.

Dramatically. That is how the words fall from my lips — how I imagine them falling. How I imagine their descent, from the crooked dendrites to the languid lips, from electricity to action — falling off in potential, gaining in velocity, drawing near their object.


Hear me.





I talk to break the seal to fill the void to end the silence. Vacuum out the emptiness and let it suck. Exhale; I say! Exhale; Hear! Exhale; Me! Fuck God for his austerity. Oh, almighty! Suffer me the human decency to respond to your own image crying beggard for your word. Or just for your attentive ear. Your presence, in my asking — not even your response.

God, be there for me.

Have you heard of cryptozoology? I don’t know; it just came to mind. Do you believe in yetis? Bigfoots? Monsters and the like?

Would you believe a deer existed if all you ever knew was horses?

Think of a creature like a horse, but imagine great, proud spires rising from his forehead — imagine two large, sharpened, cut-off branches, fashioned to him right above the eyes. And the eyes — large as saucers! Dark as night and full of fear and flight. All this, atop the mightiest, sleek brown torso. His haunch is speckled white. And his tail is a tuft like a rabbit: just a white shock of fur, puffed up above his rear! His legs are thick with the long-tendriled strength of an unvanquishable runner. Imagine the oddest horse — and now his lungs are full, and his breaths and strides are long and fierce as he whips between the trees. That is his natural state. A creature born timid, yet terribly strong. A contradiction, out of which arises this… preternatural, fascinating beauty.

It has never been seen in the wild, but I, at least, believe. The two-horned forest horse lives — or, at very least, once lived.

See what I mean? What is most remarkable about life is that we believe in it. Even having seen it — how incredible it is!

I do not, do not know. So much I believe I am capable of. And so little I have done — can do — ever will do. Time will wipe out every trace of me, whether I become president or hegemon or just the man down the street who is always yelling over the telephone. I could sell flowers for a living; I could make bombs. There is no dichotomy without context. Time is just that: context. It is infinite, tiny, discrete instants. And we. Cannot. Perceive it.

Only imagine its progress, and try to fill in the gaps in our minds.

We are not living in time. It is traveling alongside us, and we are eagerly sampling it; held enrapt to its neverending stream. Stuck to it like it is the only wellspring of what we so desperately need.

Time is change. And while, at each moment, the world is static to our limited and feeble minds, time is passing by. It does not tick; it flows. And we need this, because it means that we can change. It means that the world — the universe — existence itself can be altered with the passage of… it. Of time. And with the application of some… effort. Some processing before the next frame. Somehow… somehow, we can cause an impact in this world. And this we only know because time will tell.

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