In a time where time has stopped making sense and only moves in circles, I yearn to leave the track and swerve to the left. But the hourglass just gets turned over – and over, and over. Lessons not learned keep the plot ever the same and an ending cannot be found.
So there we are in perpetuity and all that will help is to find new ways to walk this figure eight. Next turn I might prance instead, then gander, then sprint – and hope the pictures on the walls will make different forms if passed at different speeds.
But a closed loop returns you to places you had left behind and I get tangled in the webs I’ve spun from your blue shirt and the walk through snow in Vienna. What was it you wrote onto that car window with icy fingers?
It would not be hard to find you now, but I am not sure I could explain the tangled strings that hang from your fingertips and tug at the very soul of me. For what are they to you but figments of my imagination? And to that, I am sure, you wouldn’t live up to anyway.
You are not full of magic; you have been circling your own figure eight and it’s unlikely you still wear the same shoes.
If there is no forward, if there is only round and round, then how do I keep the ghosts from haunting me? How do I start a new web when no new fingers appear to hang them from?
If all there is are do-overs, then why can’t you and I do over what we did once – painful conclusion and all? At the end of it all I won’t even ask you to stay. Because although we’re all stuck, we’re all moving. On our treadmills, our rowing machines, our stationary bikes – all those contraptions that make us think we’re going places.
My place has always been people and you’re my favorite one. Your well springs eternal and I have discovered oceans in it. Teach me diving.
“What happens will be
Pain of my own making
Cut short by eternity”
[Part 16 of Volume 2 of my “Thinking in Acronyms” series”]