Wandering from this ‘now’ to the next ‘now’, not certain which is the true or which has faded into contradiction. Stopping to see my shadow paint the wall, wondering which of us is the most certain of itself. It may contain more certainty as it follows my every gesture. But, I can change my movements, alter my place, and thus my shadow would follow. I may attempt to retrieve it, to run or turn from it, to imagine that it does not exist; closing my eyes and seeing only the walls of my eyelids as if they can disguise what is real or imagined; what drives my perceptions into a heated gasp of disbelief playing to the clouded portals of memories, which are only memories of appearances of appearances.
These meanderings into the past, resurrected from eternity, drop away like melting ice, never regained in the same light, but captured in the glimpse of an elusive gaze seeping deeper into the flesh of yesteryear. What goes around is simply what has slipped into appearances that paint the mind and crawl along a canvass of interpretation.
When truth is truth it turns to falsehood for qualification. When imagination renders the opposite of truth it is still only imagination. It can only dream of what can follow through the emergence of what has been. It races towards the carnage of life in an experiential madness, toying with the spirits lurking ‘out there’ and the moments that separate themselves from each other; each deserving a title, and each playing to the mind before a nightfall of despair.
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