Thought Progression

It's at this time we feel the distance between us. Somehow. And what we feel? How is it? And how is it that sometimes we feel such things within ourselves, such rapport over distances we cannot reach in the day, and yet at times cannot reach in when we are touching?

I don't have a glass, and after a little thought I decide I don't need one to raise one. All I need is the moon and the moment. The right moment to raise my imaginary glass to that satellite.

The one that will hold the thoughts I make and those that make themselves and at the right moment....What? Transmit them to you, at you, so you might feel and know them too? Mix them with yours and then display them: a collage only we can see as we can see and show us what we know and maybe hope for?

It does that, that satellite. Throughout the year as it steals itself into our vision, our minds. It holds all that has been cast at it and like a lonely librarian, reads it, categorises it, makes taxonomies for us to follow so we might easily find what it is we search for.

And on this night, when it chooses to display, it does so in all its subtle glories. For all of us. Because a library with no readers is a lonely place.

And it shines to break down the isolation we can too easily feel even in the most inapt moments, and to draw us up and into it.

Tick, tick, tick, tick. I watch the seconds steal my life from me. Little scouring pads, scratching away a scrap of skin at a time. Little chemical kidnappers annexing my cells and shipping them off to the home of obsolescence so they can usurp my property.

I have no property, but they don't care because it's not their job to care. It's not even in their nature and even if it were, who or what would they choose first: a second over a cell, another over themselves?

Exactly.

And I wouldn't blame them if they were, are, so clever. Cause if we weren't already at odds I'd make it my business to make sure those odds were stacked in my favour. And then, only then, would I begin the war.

And somewhere in this machine I'm serving a greater good. Which makes everything alright. Good, even. Though a complaint is just, it still needs an answer and without that...without that we just end up with bigger and bigger toys. Bigger and bigger and bigger. And if it's your ball, you call the shots.

So these seconds can be yours. They can be mine. Heck! They can be 'The Man's', after all, he's got a lot of balls, hasn't he?

Is that it? Is that really it? All of it? All there was?
All there is.

So little. Not worth it. You shoulda stayed at home. Little grey man in your little grey world. It's smaller even than you knew. You'd think you wouldn't fit in there, it's so small. But you can, with room to spare. Tons and tons and tons and tons.

It's a whole world. A lifetime's discovery. And still it'll never be enough. But it's so small I can cover it with my little pinkie and still have room to spare. Small world, small man. Don't bother me again, I've got something to do.

But it's a whole world. It has more than you could ever know in spite of its size. It's a world.

You say it, but you don't recognise your words. You're slack or you're wrong. Or both. But maybe you're right anyway.What's it all for? A summer in the sun and leave the rats to the old ship?