-In the whimper of the world’s turning, comes the tiny question…does it matter…as everything fades by evening’s light, how much of a trace of our moments will be left. That ethereal breath returns, all moments feel lit by a halogen and the rich color of life dissipates into the pallid palette of sleeping without dreaming, ever. If for a moment it could be believed these moments haven’t already existed a million times. As if, in the most naive of mind sets, one could believe that there was uniqueness left in the trajectory of this globe. Over a billion faces. All the same thoughts regurgitated. There is original thought, you’re simply the first to voice it or write it down if it seems novel. We all tell the same stories. Those seeking the unique story, the one only they’ve told, are the ones who never get past a beginning…they want their own unique story…they want their own unregurgitated piece of experience. Perhaps if they’d been Adam, or even Eve…hell, the serpent, their story might be one which did not resemble the writings of mad men who set fire to bushes to tell of whimsical voices, or who spoke of nymphs and bacchi, or of failed voices which when they creak only sound like the rustling of thought which has been heard for millennia.
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