Saturday, 19 October 2013
06:26:34 PM (GMT)
The Meeting is a jarring waltz for me. The fragments of syncopated glances and
strides all the while I pause in my mind and ask: Am I the chicken or the egg? I
certainly wouldn't relish in being the cluck of the joke, or anthropomorphized as the
snake the makes a snack of his tail. If it is, I must resign my pretense and
noble-borne novels -- written by fictitious men writing about real things -- then I
am the ouroboros, born and baptized in the river Nero. Maybe these distinctions bear
no witness? So setting upon this trek through time; I seek her face in some ancient
tome of some unremembered life. These questions I could not answer; without answers I
am disarmed and stripped of precious pretense. The same pretense that I hold out and
try to stop relentless progress with. I feel as though I'm stripped bare and laid
out. I desperately hope that every cubit and stone that they jot down will satisfy
Leonardo's discerning aspect. Because If I do not, I will stand prima-facie measured
and weighed having nothing but my honor and wiles to accompany me across the tundra
that is my life.
What did that sign say? Is it a bog? Was it named determinism or fate? I level my
eyes and tender my attention to the wilderness; I can almost see it, Kismet's Valley.
I'll homestead there.
The Meeting is a jarring waltz for me. The fragments of syncopate... Wait. Didn't
the happen before?