short short story

Sacrifice

 

He’d spent his life trying to understand the world.  And the truth was he still was unable to.  But the nearest he ever got to understanding it better was writing it down on a page.  It wasn’t enough that the page be on computer, either: if that had been the case, the quandary would’ve been non-existent.  No.  The real issue was that he needed to feel that – in however a limited way – at least some people would stumble across and connect with what he said – all the things he said; that at least some people might even reply.

But he was also aware, all too fully aware, that on starting out on the project which had then helped him survive, his survival was going to be at the expense of other people, whose memories and beings were frankly theirs, and whose permission had not been obtained.

To what extent, then, was his survival quite wrong?  If this was the only means he had to recover from fairly mad actions the year before, was the alternative simply not to survive – to continue to fall into the sin of wasted practice, and co-exist until the end arrived, sooner or later, to the lives he did experience?

He guessed there was little he could say any more on the matter.  He had not proceeded justly; he had not proceeded fairly; instead of writing his love and real affection for the people who had touched him through private acts of joy so great just his writing about them had cured him of so much pain, he should’ve had the balls to call them up one by one, and tell them equally privately the impact they had retained on him.

And maybe it’d be crazy, and perhaps they’d have considered him crazy – but crazier still was to think that art in itself could save the day where discretion clearly had not.

The discretion of family can be a terrible thing, of course: the private forums that involve family debate on many occasions lead to hateful pursuit of weakest member.  But the private forums are private either way, and a persecuted member does always have the opportunity to get away.

In a world where government now watched our every move, he was still a little curious as to how this might pan out.

But if the reality was actually that he’d wronged the people in his thoughts, perhaps the ultimate sacrifice did have to be contemplated: perhaps the art of thoughts – the art primarily of writing – demanded he no longer had or communicated them.

 

Standard
poetry

Break with the passed

There’s a past which remains constant and a past

which is passed.

Moving on, changing life, re-

patterning toxicity, requires us to live not in the

past but, rather, with the passed.

And understanding the difference is so bloody hard.

And dealing with its implications is so fucking

painful.

And I’m not sure any more that – even with help –

I’m ready to break with the passed.

 

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Standard
poetry, short short story, trails of thought

W[heard]s*

 

He never thought to con-

template the

day that words heard in corridors so beauty-

filling were passages of candle-lit rites –

never wrongs tho’, never wrongs in a thousand years of

wrongs – nor that a redeem-

tion of sorts could be theirs to take on and

win – lottery-like – the very best prize-

d bull you’d suddenly want to go and take

by the horns.

What was wrong tho’ was to say it could have been

any other way: the ways of life have many

paths and roots and shoots of impish green and

elf-like lovened breads of browned

tradition where reasons why became causeways

of explanatory flot-

sams: men and women who realised that being

woman or man means outgrowing the

child we carried around until we

noticed surprised, like news only to ourselves … for the rest

of the world had heard the words that were

written like passages of rightings to make the

universe

fine a-

gain: in its splen-

dour and dolor, but importantly, manly, womanly,

in a love which had never failed a true

test of time: a test so unwillingly, slowly, gradually breached and yet

gladly suffered for far too long.

How foolish we are in the love that is plain for

Jane and her followers to see: nothing is plainer than love

fully felt; nothing more velvety than the rough touch

of tongue on tongue on tongue of wrongs

now awaiting their

writing.

 


 

* A beautiful comment by the author, anthonymize, of the magnificent poem one dot- leads to a blot, led me – provoked me perhaps I should say – to write today’s post.  Do read the comment when you can.  It contains a wonderful short video of Eminem on words, which I’ve already reposted at the top of today’s trail of thoughts.  There’s also a quote attributed to banksy:

Art should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable.

To which I found myself replying:

Bend the words – so we don’t bend ourselves out of shape.

And if truth be told, this is a thought I have lived with for the past decade or so, since a person I really treasure – as one would locket with sepia photo, buried intimately next to timeless heart – used to insist so proudly, so finely, so grandly, so correctly, so lovingly, so encompassingly, so kindly … that the prime goal in life should be to ensure we were never bent out of shape by its march: neither by its arrival nor its leaving.

Life is there not to be survived but lived throughout in full.

And she was the ballsiest, handsomest woman you ever met.

And I would hope we might all fall in love with the person I treasure.  I would hope we might all fall in love with this idea.  I would hope one day I might treasure – once again – the daily expression of the love I once briefly saw.  But if none of the above might occur ever for me, by remitting myself once more to the thoughts that heard such words, I know I could now survive only surviving without her.

Except that I’m no longer prepared just to survive.

I want more of life than survival.

Don’t you?

 

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