On the 27th day…Am I to be permitted?

Fully resurrected…into the foyer of a peaked spring. Note the arrangement…ask no questions to moisten the seed….straighten all pillows…re rake all tracks…even the slightest form of duplication can mislabel the roots as a familiarity….replay equals dissent.

It’s nice to own something physical that others can only borrow with their thoughts. My writings are mine to touch…each downward keystroke is how I imagine it feels to be the creator…today I will suddenly want to move to the mountains, yet I will shiver upon the carpet under the rays of a towering sun. We are not so different…we are only neighbors because one of us is unable to come to grips with the hole in the screen….wrangling a steer…imagining all that is still left to be undone. Maybe nothing is truly capable of being fixed….the flattened tips of my paws…your assimilation. The patchless breeze blows heavily…eventually the keys pop up.

I could not leave well enough alone…that is why there is another plash of small print placed upon the white of an aging backdrop. No amount of colored pixels will take me home. I must hang until I am fully cured. I would not say that I am in a terrible hurry to give an answer…but surely the context of the profound is more worthwhile than the depiction of a drip.

I have come to dread most celebrations, for they are usually hunched over in a sidecar attached to, and driven by a much larger and impactful figure, formally known as “Death.” I prefer the nickname of “Tragedy,” for the word death is final and in the end very abrupt, as if it has somewhere else to be of greater or perhaps, new found importance, whereas, tragedy lingers and constantly irritates, in other words, it never has anywhere else to go. Today is harder than before, just as next year will be the worst one yet. I do not make the rules or have control over my emotions. Thankfully, I am being dragged along the road. I can honestly say that without a hint of sarcasm. I had a hand in this, even though I feel that I was manipulated and put up to it, by an impulse that was never going to laugh and slap my back. But tonight there will be dessert and songs, clearly someone else is struggling evermore. For them, I bite my lip and pull, no worries, the scars were already there, the road and the pebbles are staring a million miles away. Can you now see what I mean by the word, “abrupt?” I honestly do not care how you answer, condolences go much better with frosting, and pain knows better than to sit up straight. I do not want to go on a little longer, for, hopefully my turn at the wheel will not be new found or important. That in itself, is a reparation….and definitely worth a slice of cake.

Time stamping for the past ten…plus twelve more paces towards the halo…unfit to confirm that I was ever there…but the placebo is still part of the fable.

Just once it would be nice for the cursor to sprint undetained…across the page….my ruminations deserve a more lustrous phase of reckoning. But for now, I am a very necessary middleman…straining between the madness of producing a clever thought…and the proclamation of the noble words that shimmer… with each lick of the nebulous screen.

Dig your fingers into the sides of your front two teeth and push them together…if you are lucky they will click…either way…stare at what might be the sound, and wonder if everything is down to beginners luck or well-constructed fate.

It is always early. And one hand moves, until it is another’s turn to move and then they both move, then it is another’s turn to move and then all three move. And the first hand continues until the companion returns and then they both carry on until they are once again made whole. And then the first hand speeds along, the outsider feels rejected, the adjudicator grows hoarse. And then the first hand disappears, the vindicated ignores, the serpent rehashes. For Heaven is never late.

I have long tried to deceive myself to avoid becoming inconclusive. My only metaphor is a strainer….and all that passes thru becomes travelers and guests. They are many and I am not offended. For those who are not up to inspection or refuse the cue to pass, I dream about and take great pleasure in being a part of their narrow recital. Of course the story is never complete, and when I awake, in my paws, I only find the crumbs. I am happy that soon all I can imagine will be polished and the binate analogy of privilege will find a way to carry on. Directly speaking, my lamentations are ridiculous, but undulating thought is as gratifying an excuse for being a babbler, as licking my toes keeps me from being forced to talk or prancing a top a sharpened introduction to a fib.

There is God and there is pain…somewhere in between there is a can opener.