If only I hadn’t written this post then I wouldn’t be where I will be then.
Look at the mess I am about to make, the worst part of it is that I think this is good, a good idea, as I am doing it, more than that I feel excited at the prospects which I envision rippling outwards from this tiny insignificant pebble being thrown into the swirling, turbulent ocean which looks like a placid pond… because I need it to appear that way. If I saw it the way that it actually is, then I wouldn’t do this. Which I shouldn’t do, but I am going to do it anyway, I have to do it, the compulsion is greater than the repulsion. And this isn’t just about me, even if it sometimes appears that way.
Life was so much better before I started living it forwards.
There is a comfort in the past, spending time there reordering it, knowing that as often as I move all the pieces of it around, shuffle the furniture, repaint, wallpaper the cracks, take away, replace, add to it, the room is still the same space, it’s just my spacial awareness which is momentarily skewed, it won’t change the present.
“Yes, it will.”
Who said that? I couldn’t quite put a name to the voice. But now I can. Only it is too late now. If only I had known it then, then now would be different from the way that it is… was, as now I am in another now which has shifted slightly from the one before. This time it is not my fault, fixing this would require someone else’s participation and they will prove to be uncooperative as they are expending their finite fixing energy elsewhere, that elsewhere which won’t affect me directly but it is affecting me indirectly. I won’t know any of this until later and by then it will be too late to do anything about it now or then, now and then. Not that that would have made any difference, but I am under the illusion, being crushed by its heavy girth, that it could.
“The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting it to come out different.”
Who said that? It sounds wrong. I was originally only focused upon a jarring sense that it was grammatically incorrect, the door was ajar and perhaps had always been that way, but what it had been is irrelevant to what it is and what it will be once I regret crossing the threshold. I was under the impression (why am I always under things which are too weighty to bear?) that somehow I could figure out how to fix it, make it come out different… ly. But that sounds wrong too, and when has being grammatically correct been of any use whatsoever. Being wrong seems to be a more desired ability than being right.
Where was I? Does it matter where I was, isn’t where I am now more pertinent to where I will be and end up… end up, is that like bottoms up?
Once I got over the hump of thinking that I could somehow solve a grammatical error which only existed in my mind, I deviated off course with willing feet, fleet-footed fleeing from the scene of a crime which had never been committed in any timeline but mine. The detour proved to be a self-fulfilling prophecy which I would make in a past I hadn’t had but wished I had had because then the prophecy would not have come true.
There I wondered… no, there I wandered to this point here, where I wondered if the who who had said those words, was speaking from experience. Were they regretting the practice. But had they not had that kind of trying, so very trying practice of practicing the do-over trying to break the cycle, while recycling, to find the hole in the loop… which I hope I can find soon otherwise I may end up caught in this thought, this sentence until it is too long and I am too insane to know that I am walking around in a circle which with each circuit becomes a rut.
“What do you mean I’m stuck in a rut! This, you silly fool, is a straight and narrow bouncing bridge to nowhere!”
I said that, just now. And soon enough I will argue with it, but that time has yet to come. Or has it already passed.
The unfinished end, which may be a beginning that never was. Stuck in the middle with you, playing a tune on a loop as a soundtrack, it’s catchy and I’m caught in it. This is what happens when the part of your brain which is supposed to be doing math equations keeps being used as an overflow storage compartment for the music department, it’s where they hide things and know that no one will look there. But I look there sometimes… I wish I didn’t do that.
It took me my entire life to get to this point, which required other lives to reach other points… is there a point to it, this, that, the other, the point itself?
If only I hadn’t written this post… that sounds familiar, I wonder who said that?
This post would not exist, if it does indeed exist, maybe it doesn’t, crossing fingers, intersected lines, which way is which, were it not for that which led those who are not me, those ineffable… that’s the wrong word, who cares, keep going, no one will notice… but I pointed it out… others who were surfing the ripples of other others and ended up at a starting point in the middle. Here.