I resent my aliveness in so far as it means an illusion of toward.
As though time were a straight road. Point “a” to point “b” and
each day I walk further down the line. Road. What is point “b”
but a drop-off, an oblivion? The time/line/road is my own, sure,
but also belongs to the globe. Now imagine the earth as a bowling
ball rolling toward point “b,” the drop off.
I resist this framework. I feel it inaccurate.
There are millions of pinheads. My life: a force which presses against
the pins, and so the artifice, the fabric comprised of many points,
takes on a topography. This topography is shaped through increments called days.
The days form a life. The days then, when we sense them, do not
march us forward toward oblivion. No. They take shape.
This is what I mean by life. A topography, formed. This, which is taking shape.
Yes. And each of us who live shape it.
Yes. And life does not arrive to us shapeless
and its contours continue.
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