Moments in my life come and leave before I’m ready to react.
The rest are stretched a very long distance away, and my longterm stamina seems questionable… I’ve got enough for now, I think, for leaping over that right there, and turning…
...
Time to me is more within. It’s my body growing and changing in a soup of growingess and changingness. It’s unrecorded but progressive, building on itself as the previous moments slip away, as their results pave. It’s looking up at the words I have above this, and continuing to type more, watching them stack into, hopefully, something.
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It’s an ochestra blasting a symphony that I’m not nearly loud enough to shout over, but I try anyway and go hoarse. The conductor’s wand’s enormous, unbelievably so, lying on the ground, and I can’t see the end of it, I don’t know if there’s an end to it, but the orchestra doesn’t seem to need it, I don’t know that it ever did. I worry the volume will break my eardrums. But sometimes I like the music enough that the damage is okay. Sometimes I even try to etch the music onto the ground by my feet, save some glimpse of it… Mostly I just stand there, waiting for my cue, but I think it might have already played.