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Exchanging the past for the present

I talk to myself in written form trying to escape the limits, of rationalising conversation where spoken dialogue fails a
verdict. Where echoed pleasantries ring hollow and a loss for words is not enough. I would talk to you if ever you
could hear it.

Ideas concepts and explanation, plain transcriptions secure in thought; I compose and record them all, but they’re
not my language or label. Only repackaged filed learning, what is mine is a journey to describe the indescribable.
Things that happen, any meaning afforded.

We talked of lives and things past. When I heard the first whisper I knew. A trembling heart discerning truth before
reason broke it in two. Was it known that I would also be in search of lost time? Reluctant to turn the page, to
another’s influence on my way.

As when I stood there alone remotely. Surety betrayed. Mouth agape and screaming in apparent quiet. Did a sound
pass my lips or were ears silenced by waves of an out-of-phase spirit; destructive interference because I couldn’t
make a difference.

I know melancholy just stalls, while time continues through its route. But it takes strength to cede the relative to
accept the absolute. A soul must resonate with life’s vibration to persist. I search and I write in acknowledged
ignorance.

For a path defined by erstwhile story leads to scars of self attrition, in clawing against flight forget or sharing in
suspicion. All we have and all we are is a body of friendship love and memories. No domain over energies and life.
Spells borrowed from the otherwise.

Sometimes I awake laughing. Moments to capture memories and maybes or I call a name softly, wanting the faulty
rules of life to break. But there’s no rewind no rewriting no penning fantasy passion plays. I must continue from
where I was, where I am, on today’s page.

Days grow longer, dark ebbs away. Clocks were advanced an empty hour in lost cause. Hands rolled forward in
passive detachment; a marionette of change from is to was. I cried that night turning time’s wheel. Of me yet strung
by a power I lack. Frustration at swiftness of clockwise, as my counter could not turn it back.

A year has passed into a new spring. New because it’s not like the others. Futures bud from the present’s bare
branches. Born of loss, the illusion of tenses uncovered. Sentiments and plans in reminiscence alone to lie silent with
surrender. To tomorrow in writing, penned as an echo. My concession to learning how to let go.

Lights when extinguished may affect two displays. Conceding to night or portending new days. I rose in late morning
still cannot forget, have changed for the better not yet for the best. I think that’s okay, I try. Keeping pledges unsaid
staying senses denied for the sake of another’s refrain. Propagating the tacit remaining sparked fire from impact
sustained on my heart. Not all lost; most but not every part. A life’s expectations suppressed with an acceptance of
hopes to lay rest.

Is this where life forsakes vanity, where hearts coalesce in humanity? Writing of times that no longer exist, of
emotions set floating adrift. To forget fears or cares with a memory; what meaning here for continuity? Can we
know without stealing from history in words of the whole, appending our hurt to the total?

And wishing for peace, that acceptance grows, for a benign voice to reach further than prose and to more than the
me. Life is a throw and presence too ephemeral for ego. Conscious to the drum of thought word action and a
backdrop of outlasting grinding counts crafting a regular relentless impatient unchanging direction away from the
past.

What is yet to come is all I can fashion. Unplotted paragraphs chapters not written to stand as the value of
everything before, but with a piece missing; a true vulgar fraction. A her missing, part of me gone not integral, I’ve
searched in myself for the sum of residuals. But life’s not a model, can’t zero the void. Left wanting with errors
regressing just noise.

Does such a fracture compound throughout time in formation of an altered state? Hands can’t be held,
consequential chains fade, if the links are allowed to risk breaking. Or is it no matter to natural causality? It matters
to me; there’s no answer, just weary hearts pondering the nature of doubt, ideas and impressions within and
without.

Still don’t know what I’m doing, here on this page. Is this for another or my step in phases? A look back or forth, I no
longer presume. Life admits it’s not just what we make it. But the price of renewal is unproven bloom. I hope, with
changed views on what to assume. Dreams, in a stirring from fancies, diverted to the only road open; ahead and a
future.

What can I do, but add my mark to the wall. Another inscription of a course well-travelled. Another I was here, of
fused passing and release. In a place where I find hearts united in beat. Every day I forget. Prospects, thoughts,
conversations lost to the balance of memory and moment. Yet a means of adhering to life in the now, to what is
remembered not what is supposed.

Heartstrings play games with the mind and the wits. I write to keep anchored on what was and what is. Writing is
material, a piece of my difference in the bargain of exchanging the past for the present. Assumptions of truth are
perceived through a filter, straining to sort the unreal into sense. I write in my words to understand what I am.
To live and remember. To allow myself to forget.


Writing


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