Infinite Tense

As the sad song leaks through his headphones, the Boring Writer sits quietly typing. This is a part of a story, something that touches lives. Each note elicits another memory without an owner. Long dusty afternoons in the sunlight, swirling motes chased by a purring cat. Easy days of some kind of innocence, faded and yellowed. Pulled out of a back pocket in the mind, worn and folded. Like an old man sitting in a side-street cafe, wondering where things went. Not right or wrong, just how they happened, when they went. Nostalgia is too strong of a word for a passing feeling.

The sun breaks through the clouds, the piano strikes a lighter note, cheerful but saccharine. Like a forced smile, it covers up but doesn't push the feelings away. As it trails off everything returns.

Everyone has a part to play in the story of the world. Life is glorious when it's left to be as it may. Spread your wings and soar, little butterfly. You can't plan for tomorrow unless you believe that it will come. Life may not be a stage, but characters we remain. It is a lifting experience to see the world detached from value. Lifting the dollars and cents, lifting the worth or worthlessness, the poor, the old, the sick, the vain. Looking at it all from a different place, studying the flow of life, swimming through it. It is not necessary to always swim upstream, but the effort is worth expending.

Enjoy the experience by the instant, it may vanish as quickly as it arrives. Remember the first screaming breath, and expect the last shuddering. The cycle is inescapable, for now. Live, love, learn, alliterate. In this world there are only things worth creating. The need is greater than the pettiness, and one noble moment outshines a villain.

We are all Internet superheroes. In the digital confines of our realm we are paragons, ideas given flesh, existing only to serve a single purpose. Like the demigods of old, we charge into the fray. The pantheon is large and varied, and the stories emerging are mythical and epic. Our foreheads give birth to ideas which live on to rebel against us.

Soon the vastness of our spaces will overwhelm us, but for now we are pagan warriors, striding boldly upon new plains, claiming them as our own. Soon the weregild will come due, but not yet. Today we are victorious and we accept it like sunlight. We have not fallen yet.

Not yet.