The Beginning’s End
The quiet in here screams louder than this pre-war gas heater, even drowning out the neighbor’s favourite friends, television and screams of rage and confusion. Even the city’s gray hum of drones and cloned bumble bees escaping sociological factories of sorts become an ocean I rest my back upon while gazing skyward as sunsets in the heart of Babylon.
I almost feel at home; inside a sepia tone island photo, rastas, frankincense, drums a hammock.
The streets piled high with filth filled snow mounds, blackened with soot from terrestrial human transport mobiles, neither of which I’d experienced in days, not in fright of toxicity; but fighting for a fruitful future, entrenched like a mad scientist with gadgets and engines testing and refining the frequency of harmony between places, people, things and the titanic of time, divided by energy.
Nothing makes any sense and even more.
It’s been about a year since the quarantine started when you showed up at my door. The last time that happened it was 15 years before, but the second your pheromones compounded into the atmosphere like a dense fog of lightning and thunder over the tropics, it brought me back to the present future, cataloging an inventory of what’s in store;
Listless Lists: components from the core, processing units, ram, requirements, time constraints, extensions, chores, proteins, lipids, carbs, fibers, vitamins, minerals so that we may endure.
Weeks have condensed into minutes and years into days, thick like resin from haze smoke in fire blazed glass bowls we used to make peace when shit hit the fan and shattered to pieces all over the place. Nonetheless, I’ve strayed and forgotten exactly what I’d like to say as I was spirited away with a whiff of bittersweet memories.
The times when we took for granted our ignorance as we grew through the soil of fundamental darkness and pain.
It seems that’s all there ever was: Moments where we forget ourselves on the rollercoaster trip, flips, and dips, and the memories that get stacked on chips and discs for points and clicks, giggles and shits, googles and gifs, jpegs, tiffs, sql scripts, dna splits, so we can relive and remember who we thought we were then, what we make it mean, how it made us become and the like; equations of the inexhaustible abyss of causality.
I am no longer relieved, rushing to catch the winds, flying on political whims left wing right wing, quixotically fighting society’s mills; moments of thrill, chill, and shrill, that my senses perceive build a distorted hologram of what it is, and what I think I thought it was;
To be continued.