Wednesday Evening Post: 10.12.22

Apologies. This damn lack of discipline aligned with the algorithmic antagonist all around. Gives information one might be better off without, and the thoughts associated with the seen, never unseen. Well, we shouldn’t say never.

Oh, the woes of contemplation. To think and think, all while the walls of inaction seem to be closing in. The perceptions of what is contrasted by what would have been if other ways were wandered aside the one found and gone down.

My first kiss just got married. Rather, the human associated with the event. One that teenage reverie still regards with ambitious and mesmerizing aesthetic. Didn’t work out, though. For though she may be wed, I am not. A situation applied to other instances as well.

And it is not desire but wonder that grabs my mind asunder. In no way do I wish my life had gone otherwise, at the very least up to the point where the consciousness created at least partly through my action came to be. That very consciousness that had her second grade drama club audition today. I would do that all again, at even higher cost if need be, just so she can live the best life that she deems fit.

And yet void of all and any alternative aspiration, I cannot help but wonder how other paths might have made some alternative narrator. And, I often wonder in regards to romance, as thus far, all of mine are in the past. And there is something in the season, the beautiful decay always reminds me such past endeavors.

So, I sit and stew upon moments, as the creeping sensation of what I may have forgotten out of some perceptive self-defense come to bear. That for all the idyllic, I may have incorrectly recollected my mistakes in participation. Knowing how many fuck-ups I can easily bring to mind, there is a guilt in knowing that what had been may not be what I remember.

And all this because of a tagged photo of a woman in a white dress that I have not seen or spoken to in a gap of time constituting half my life. Technology. What a wonder.

Though to condemn the whole of such thought patterns would be to avoid my own responsibility with other triggers.

There’s always a song, heard first in some misty long ago. A sensation that I’m sure a neuroscientist can explain using words half contrived from dead tongues. But I’m partial to the poets rendering.

Set patterns of frequency and tone fuel the fossil driven apparatus imprinted upon the who we thought we were. The hope or despair paired in partisan with some way back when.

Then, of course, there is just the plain old thinking about. That in stumbling through one’s own unfocused mind, we find the repetition of moments thought seismic upon occurrence. And before long, one can realize how selfish such memory can be. For often, we are under the assumption that there might be some equality in impact for those others involved. That the massive incursion into how or what or why we think about a specific time or event, need not be so universally or even partially believed by those others that were there to perceive. Your earth-shattering moments could register as litte more than a blip in the recesses of another’s mind. Which of course, bends back to the guilt of the oblivious. Something I have known myself to be. So, what of these moments that hardly rate or rank in my own recollections? Could they be more defining to some other soul than I could possibly even conceive? I suppose it is a bit egotistical to operate under such an assumption, but if I weren’t a bit egotistical, we wouldn’t all be here with me writing, and you reading this.

The pluralism of sentient pattern seekers. And worse still, a species still drunk on epic story arcs, refreshed, revived, and recrafted for millennia upon millennia. We seek to live our lives like the tales we so admire- but even in their conglomeration, we see only the stories and know nothing beyond the characters than what is shown, or what they tell us. From what I have thus far gathered, life seems to involve more than that. Playwrights get to imply an occurrence and then change the scene. Us non-literary mortals must live through the breaks. Slow a montage down, and interest is sure to evaporate, I’d bet.

But here I sit, amidst the ticking of clocks. And there you read, involved in whatever hum of linear life occupies your present. And we may never know what the other might say next.

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