If I write another word, nothing changes. If I write no more words, nothing changes. The sun rises, the sun shines, the sun sets, another day, nothing changes. If I die tomorrow, the world turns, time tips over and once more drains away another day. Nothing changes, nothing matters, nothing means anything more than it did a moment ago, another memory of matter decaying into another memory of matter, endlessly ebbing into entropy. If I write no more words, no one will remember, no one will wonder, no one will consider what I could have forged or rended asunder. Another day drains away, another month another year, another lifetime spent in confusion and fear, my life no more a measure of meaning than any other. Nothing changes, nothing lost, nothing gained. But, if I write another word, then perhaps it can matter where none I’ve penned before could, perchance it can persuade like none else I’ve uttered would, possibly that could be the word that transcends the inane and absurd and changes something for the better. A word, one single, simple word could lead to a sentence, mayhap a sentiment so serene yet supreme that others take heed and are freed of despair and doubt for all of a day, and for that one day the delusory doldrums and dilemmas that dog our diurnal duties could be cast away and we could move mountains, nay, all mankind toward a more temperate, tolerant, safe, and sane society. Maybe, against all odds, we can pretend, or at least pretend, that the future can be fair, if only we’d venture there, and all it would take is but a word to wake the world, all it would need is knowing of the seed of such a notion, that all it could take to break the nature of nothing ever changing is but a beginning. But maybe it is but a dream. Maybe tomorrow the sun will summit, shine, and set, and that is all we get. Live, laugh, lose. But maybe, just maybe, I should write another word.
This is not what you think it is. In fact, it is not even what you think it is not.
Infinite impossibilities tangle inside my skull, contemplating and conspiring on expiring my last waking moments in a cacophony of idle thoughts so they can watch the show of me turning and churning in the sheets, struggling to extrapolate myself from all that is all my thoughts at once.
Mere caffeine alone cannot solve this one. Time for music.
Even if I could, I would not, so to say, even think of changing to a slower grade of pace as I face each day on what little measure of sleep I allow for my mind to take. When else would I dance with the moments of space and time that flit into my brain, expecting a waltz?
I say this, but once. Time is not what you think it was. It is mine.
Coffee is for the weak. If my blood gets much thinner, I could slide it into a seam and sew it away, never to escape again. Of course I am rambling, the damn lights never give up, not when they can blind me in the total darkness, pounding into my bones, trying desperately to keep me blinking. Damn sun. Damn sun! Die already!
Oh wait, it’s dead for the day. Why then do I still see it when I look down?
The compositions of those already asleep wander through my ears, soothing the silent beast trembling within my skin. It is good music I hear, too good for the mere darkness of the light to envelop. It is good to hear as I drink a little more sustenance, drowning out the howls of the thoughts as they drift away and disappear on the horizon of a nice soothing dream.
A dream, of music.
In the twilight of the days, in the evening of the year, as inebriated fools hail the fading sun and curse the coming darkness, I whisper into the cooling winds, my words wandering across the earth. The earth comes to rest for another cycle, as the colors flee before my cold. I am approaching on whirling clouds of grey and gloom, quickly gathering into the storms ahead. Darkness looms above, as shadows grow below, nothing escaping the darkness that comes upon the land like a mad torrent of unforgiving anguish.
My cold chills to the bone any caught outdoors. I blast forth from the depths of men’s fears, swallowing up the bright summer days and the colors of the fall, washing all life of its warmth and painting the world in white. Men cower indoors, huddled about together before fires, trying to stave off my chill, trying to bear my wrath for another season, shivering through the long nights and longer storms as I vent my cold fury upon all who would dare to venture forth amid my sovereignty .
Behold, mere mortals, the rancor of my reign! Curse your curses upon my head if you will, offer me supplication from your scant stores, wail into the howling darkness your entreaties for forgiveness, but you will know no mercy. I am King Winter, and you will taste my death, trapped in the darkness of my grasp. Struggle and flee, my chill gales will pursue you, will gnaw at you, will bring you down into numb submission, and will tear the last warmth of life from your frozen bones.
Only when the land is dead, and the chill has sunk into the rocks and dirt will I depart once more. Only when I have had my fill of your misery, only when I have scoured the leaves and chased the joy from all who survived my vengeance, Only then will spring come to know the land. Only then will men emerge and whisper of my cruelty. Only then will men and beast return to the land. Only then will they once more claim lordship upon the world and build and breed. Only when my menace is a memory will they farm and flourish. But men and beast alike would do well to remember that seasons come and seasons go, and seasons pass and seasons grow. Tarry not long upon the land, for in the autumn of the year I bide my time, and once more the dark clouds grow upon the skies above and once more my words wander forth, heralds to be headed, to be feared, to be dreaded. Signs and portents of the fall of light and warmth should be heeded, for once more I will know my glory and life will know what cruel consequence cold can carry.
Two steps to the left, another to the right,
Twist and turn, spin and dance,
Jerk and shake, twirl and slide,
You are trapped in the trance.
A little of this, a little of that,
Too much to do, too many to meet,
Smile and shake, laugh and chat,
They stand in line to greet.
You want to do it all, every bit,
Experience the world all at once
In a second yet still enjoy each part.
Perchance to taste, perhaps to take,
A chance to create, to contribute,
To mark your mark, to live a dream.
Nothing can stop you today.
I want to see you naked in the first light of a newborn star.
I want to see you fully clothed in the fading light of day.
Dreams born, dreams worn, dreams shorn and forlorn.
I want, I need, I wish, my greed, my lust must feed.
Nothing matters, except everything that matters.
Nothing matters, except everything love shatters.
What is must be, what is has been, what was will be.
Scream into the heavens, they will not hear.
Cry into the abyss, there is nothing there.
I grasp, you cry, you persevere, we die.
Memories. Memories over mementos.
Memories made, memories matched, memories memorialized with life, memories lost.
Memories over moments.
A madness of words and emotions, never enough, never ever enough.
A madness of reason and reaction. Motions of melancholy and memory.
Fear, trepidation, a new life, an old life, a short life, a new life.
There is nothing certain, there are no tomorrows.
Today is a day like any other day, it is.
What is done in this day is yet to be defined.
Let’s define it a good day.