27 Jul 2015

The dusty pages of a book that has been fondled and caressed many times may one day speak the life I have lived.

The 1s and 0s that permeate the air may one day unfurl the embrace that my soul has darkened into a smother, and again released to give back to the emptiness.

In millennia, centuries, fewer or starbeams; some more unfathomable method of communicative accounting may tell of my deeds.

And then again, the sum total of all I have seen, all I should never, ever have witnessed or felt, the dread and the scorn and the laughter and bliss; the accumulation of debts to madness and schemes of sheltered solace, all may erode into the faithless wind that time leafs about in its majestic and whimsical cruelty.

For whatever this grey and physical matter of mine is - hands typing and caressing in one, and the brain nagging and conveying the other - it will never be heard or seen at all if I have never uttered their forming phrases.

A beginning. And from the stillness there was growth in the stirred soil.

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