and this too shall pass, like water evaporating from the glass

Jun 15, 2008

Given time, all these things shall pass, filtering through to translucency, until not even the fragments of once was remains.

Erosion is the consequence of natural laws; the ebb and flow of thoughts like the insidious workings of water against porous materials.

What you felt yesterday fades into the ether, a wan memory encased in electrical discharge somewhere deep in your mind until it loses relevancy. Bliss, sorrow, deep satisfaction, great confusion, they work by diffusion, blending and melting in sleep until there is nothing but a shallow calm ready for the next ripple.

You had such grand memories so recently made, such promises of beautiful renderings in words that wouldn’t fade, electrical discharges in inorganic matter, across webs of space, but you had to sleep. And sleep, a little death with its unconscious dissemination, removed from you the gleam on the crystal tip of contentment and happy seconds spent well. You woke renewed or undone, a groggy rebirth into a presumptuous familiar world to pick up the pieces of yesterday, tattered and in disarray. Body sore, you took your movements through familiar territory, distracted with new events, wounded by the little murders that reality inspires in certain people. You came home a stranger to the person you were the day before, and you slept once more. That thoughtless leveler, sleep and it’s subconscious play of dreaming strew your precious memories about yet again until they were dangling broken from strings of bone whiteness. Another day of blows so light and damaging their bruises made not a mark on sensitive flesh, but went strait to the marrow. Nearly forgotten was the lovely glittering of a perfect day, yes a perfect day of the likes you haven’t known since you could differentiate between such things. It became like a mural sun-bleached on a crumbling wall, but the disappointment was negligible, a grain of sand in a sandstorm in a desert far far away.

And the time passed, and sleep came and went, until that too evaporated leaving the indelible mark of its transitory nature, a tiny pit, corroded, to lie with all the others.

We are the consequences of the passing of time on our ephemeral natures.

Like pebbles in a stream,

like the ice on which salt is strewn,

like dye in the sun.


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