The pleasure and the nature of the anecdote was lost long ago to the story. It was lost to closure. It was told to behave and to be honest and to be direct. Lets hope our lives are nothing like stories. Not because they end, but more so because they sometimes are long winded and boring. Stories need a purpose. In contrast, anecdotes relate to being human since they tell everything and nothing at the same time. We take what we like and do many things with the information. Most importantly nobody is held accountable.
It is the promise of a future. Hopefully it has no visible carpet stains. An empty room is promising though. The choice of high pile rug and satin curtains and white or colored walls is all up in the air. Its not flying though. It is in fact invisible for now, but you know what you want. It is the same with a similar person.
When you move you also leave an empty room. You can see where everything was. Where everything happened. The stains will be gone soon. The carpet installer will come to make everything look new. Its even new in the way that it is new to you. Everything that is has changed. It is the same with an old person.
Maybe it is the comic sans of language. Whatever it is in the end in terms of a being, it is helpful.
Einstein told of a place where time slows down not of its own accord, but becuase of speed and density. That is niether an excuse for us nor an endorsment to create such senarios. Niether does it explain for the change in rate of time at the end of work and just right before a date, nor at the classic long sunset. There might be very imporant reasons why it is so, but then the situations between people are so vast and time is so unasumming that the question will go unanswered. For now it is safe to assume that maybe that is why some of us appear to be much younger than we look and why there are old souls.
Maybe in the moment after we ask time to get its shit strait time replies, "No you should."
I spent my time looking down on our new ocean. Sitting on the edge I sensed the same fear of falling into the first ocean, our original ocean. Just that in this one there would be no such thing as buoyancy. Likeness in many aspects of fear and love. I never saw anyone fall into the sky. Did astronauts have the same fear? Once count down is done they fly up and away. They loose their control. Their connection gone. There is something in both that is at times hard to identify. It is why we stare at the ocean. In it exist a place beyond having letting go? Essentially where it takes us no one knows. Wether it is down below or across its lengths, and in this case into space, what awaits is what it is. Only after does it start to look familiar. They are made of the things that people tell us.
My time there was short lived like many things. There weren't to many places to explore. Just two balconies that face south and an ocean. Unsuprisigly the one thing it did lack was waves.
Ignore one and choose the other. Waves and particles. There are many things that exist without much thought to sense. They make up the world somehow or other. I sit hear and you over there. There isn't to much thought as to how it gets there from here or who knows where.
Two things exist at the same time in different places. Which is the copy?
Whatever is convenient. I think so.
Inside of a Choice something always gets devoured. The wants and the desires, pursuits. With what is taken something is given up. If not pistachio then vanilla ice cream. A night our or even brown bagging-it. The world is made of choices. And the world is is filled with countless ways to attack one. In the end it is like skipping rocks across a solid lake bed. It will either take you far or get swallowed with a thunk.
Make choices. The best result is an interesting story. Although I heard, "good stories only happen to those that can tell them." They most definitely start of with, "It was like..."
Water even in it is smalles amount still is known for its sensational-ness. The sea, sometimes the ocean, comes out of nowhere. It is still magical for many reasons. For me it is that you can slide right into it. The salt won't do much to keep you above if not for the kicking and swooping of arms and legs. It must be its inconsistency, like an addict. Always encouragable especially when it comes to drugs. Water is hard to hold in your hand, it evaporates. Water slips through the fingers. Try to contain it by drink it up and it will most certainly be pissed out within an hour. It is susceptible to sweating as well. Even then it is magical. Maybe the sea is like family, you can't really help but like them.
Travel use to be about time and extremities. It was accomplished. Cars and planes only provide comfort. Water shortage, frostbite, and heatstroke or only meant for those that are daring enough to hike. For the rest of us absentmindedness is key to travel.
What we hide is not shame. In fact we don't hide much because in the uttering of "good" we can read what is really there. My favorite is the "oh.... what? Good." Even then we realize that there is to much at hand to coherently make sense of everything. But realizing that just being is the best part of it all.
Long after that though. Much longer. You'll end up with a puzzle that is suggestively similar. It will be the residual of the previous times that will remind you what belongs in the empty slots. It will still have the same results, but paradoxically as it is built over and over again it will be different. Like the difference in every glass of water which is made up of mostly the same elements.
That was years ago. I cannot remember what I read. All that is there is a bright clear day, a pile of paper work, and a textbook with a dead fly standing over it. I sat on a chair with my back to an open window and the fly stayed its ground between my arms on the kitchen table. I remember these things not with content for the fly, nor with conviction. My mind simply had nothing better to do than to remember this as important. But that is the what is tricky about memory as it carries on.
There is nothing truer that I can say about memory than I am already forgetting things I did today. The fly stays with me because it stands in defiance of what flies normally do. But things today like the number of phone calls made, the amount of time it took to drive home, and even small thoughts that were interrupted by less interesting events are all lost.
Who are we then if we can't remember much? I can say without any doubt that I am comfortable being me. But we can make concrete statements about what it is we think of ourselves. Some might be eager, sulking, utterly elated at this moment. What happens though after the thoughtful comments about our state of being? We forget them days from now. Weeks from now it wont even register. We'll feel different about a song and we once again forget to take out the trash. Years from now it will introduce itself. For what reasons I cannot begin to suggest.
On to the next subject... let going.
"It is the fifth day of April. And my hands feel like January. It is much to cold to hold hands and my pockets are to small to host yours too."
Is it indifference? Is it just to demonstrate that it is cold? Maybe it is the words of a coward? Nonetheless words do as they wish and not asked of. Literalness is lost sometimes in beautiful passages. But I would prefer ambiguity than having to say something with no character. Say anything though. Hope that it means the same as the thoughtfulness and emotion that push them out without much thought.
The universe as is the ocean. Best described as a myriad. Being that beyond a point they both are infinite. And while on of them is infinite the other isn't, yet it does persist to be just out of our reach (the Bottom of the ocean). The problem man creates is to deal with tasks as long as they are manageable. Otherwise known as being lazy. And not to be confuse with the itis (which sometimes comes after lunch and even twice in a day, after dinner). Most do not have a say in that. So it is in a world of infinities that goals are always out of reach. Things are mostly described as "the worst of times." Yet things work and life goes on. Considerably well for some, okay for others.
Problems are seldom to be found, as it is "acceptance" that does away with that . Mathematically jumping from 12,438 to 12,439 only exist as a single solitary step up. Yet the void that exist in-between is an infinite set of numbers. The closer you looking the more you understand that there are smaller and smaller divisions, eventually giving way to comprehension and a lack of nouns. Ignorance is the driving force that produces the single step and the preceding ones, too. The foolish man continues, but so does the obsessive compulsive.