8689

Day 8689 of my journey here. I haven’t used my days very well so far. I could be forgiven, perhaps, because I did not realize initially that these days were consumable. It’s not even that: they are consumed and consuming. There is no choice. These days are not a feast laid before me that I may eat or not eat. Time passes. [Wait a moment.] I knew first that I existed. I would wake up, enjoy the goods presented to me. Live a little. Cry a lot, I’m sure. What was here today will be here tomorrow. Eternality was the mode of this existence. Then suddenly there was something gone, something indefinable gone. This was the fault of memory. I remembered what once was. It was no longer that way. Eventually I realized that time gone is time gone forever. A twinge of guilt. I adopted a notion of responsibility, as if it is my fault that days slip by, as if I’m responsible for time. I thought that I must be constantly working so as not to disappoint time by not using it. The enjoyment of it could wait till it’s gone, I assumed. That’s what I was told, at least.
On day 8688 I loved. I beheld in others the universe. I saw in one smile all time laid out before me. Those faces are a little different today, probably. I haven’t seen them. They have grown a day older like me. Probably the skin glows just as brightly. Probably they would bring the same joy. They are dying, though, as am I. The universe is dying. In that one tiny point, everything is dying. Perhaps this is what the teachers of Zen mean. The most important thing in Zen is life. The most important thing in Zen is death.
I hope to see them again soon. Life doesn’t mean anything inside my head. I don’t really care what happens to me. I’m as good as dead anyway. I’m as good as alive anyway. But they are the universe, and that matters. The universe matters, I think. Hope, joy, love, math, and all other abstractions are seen in a face. Sadness, too. The universe constructs itself around a story. A story is communicative. Communication requires two subjects. There are no stories in my solitary consciousness. The universe does not construct itself when I think alone. It just is. It doesn’t mean anything. We involve ourselves in projects and the world obliges with a stage play: chaos cooperated to form a phantom discourse.
Day 8690 threatens. It threatens to undo me. It holds the universe captive. I hope I shall see it. I hope I shall see the phantom actors and be swept away into the lies. I’m not unhappy. I’m not unhappy. I’m not unhappy. I’m just writing here, stranded. I’m a pilgrim perhaps, from a land of muses, a land of contemplators, where time doesn’t slide through our fingers. My homeland is stagnant. Contemplation. Contemplation. Contemplation. We don’t do anything there. We can’t do anything there because there is no time to thrust us into action. I’m a castaway here, on an island of time. Counting. Isn’t this periodicity strange? Isn’t it strange to ask a question of the abyss? What time is it? It’s only day 8689.

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~ by falleninparadise on December 13, 2012.

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