He had so many futures,
so many paths to choose from.
It’s truly a pity, then, that he never did choose one,
choosing instead to watch his choices melt away,
one by one,
swallowed by The Choice He Never Made.


“A hundred paths,
all shining bright.
A hundred paths
he’d never take.

He chose instead
to stay in bed—
A fateful choice
He’d never make.”


His options were lovely,
each one leading to Greatness.
But the longer he stayed,
the more time he wasted,
the less of them he seemed to see.


“Fifty paths,
still shining bright.
He didn’t choose;
he’d rather wait.

Why choose today,
when either way
all fifty paths
led somewhere great?”


He sat, unperturbed,
as the Choice He Never Made continued to burn through his options,
eliminating the remaining paths.
Destiny, he resolved, would decide his path.


“Seven paths,
not quite as bright—
yet tantalizing
all the same.

He’d sit and wait
to see his fate;
patiently,
until it came.”


It happened fast, and all at once,
when it dawned on him—
he had made the Choice He Never Made.


“A hundred paths,
upon a time.
A game he watched,
but never played.

A hundred gone,
except for one—
the Choice he chose,
but never made.”

It happened, as we walked into the narrow space between Fantasy and Metaphor, that we came upon the hills of Truth, and I sensed above me that which I could not know but almost did.

I asked the man, "Tell me, kind sir, what is it that I cannot know but almost do?"

"I cannot tell you," said the man.

We continued on, until we reached the rippling waters of the Self. And as we watched the gentle waves, I sensed behind me that which I once knew but then forgot.

I asked the man, "Tell me, kind sir, what is it that I once knew but then forgot?"

"I've already told you," said the man.

We continued on, until we arrived at the very center of Love. There we stood, and suddenly I sensed within me that which I knew, but could not speak.

I asked the man, "Tell me, kind sir, what is it that I know but cannot speak?"

And the man said, "That is You."

Then I said, "But if I cannot speak it, how will They ever know Me?"

The man laughed. "They already do," he said.

Then he turned and walked away, toward the narrow space between Fantasy and Metaphor whence he had come.

Of the vast amount of Days that make up the mysterious creation we call Time, there is but one Day with which we are intimately familiar, and that is Today.

It just so happened that when a certain argument arose between Days of the Past and the Days of the Future, and they agreed to settle the matter in a historic gathering of all Days, it was Today who was chosen to preside over the convention.

It all began when Tomorrow complained to Two Days Ago that Yesterday had made a real mess of things. It was Yesterday's selfish choices, he said, that had caused Tomorrow's problems. Two Days Ago foolishly repeated this to Yesterday, who immediately got to work rallying the Preceding Days to his defense.

Last Week Monday, short tempered by nature, considered this an attack not just on Yesterday but on the entire Past. It was a dangerous precedent, he warned the other Days of Last Week, wagging his finger dramatically. The Past must be respected, and this practice of Past-Blaming ought to be nipped in the bud. This stirred much resentment among the Upcoming Days, who were themselves quite frustrated with the events of the Past.

It was at this point that Today was notified of the unrest, and he pleaded with them to remain calm, but tensions were escalating far too quickly for diplomacy to be effective. Before long, entire Generations of the Past and Future were taking sides, mostly along partisan lines (with the exception of a few nostalgic Days in the distant Future who sided with the Past, which the rest of the Future denounced as a despicable betrayal).

Out of pure desperation, Today suggested they all gather for a formal discussion, and work on a solution together. (At which point one of the Ancient Days snorted loudly. "Yes, together,” Today repeated forcefully, glaring at him.).

Nobody could think of a better course of action, and they couldn't deny that, since Today was neither in the Past nor in the Future, he was their best shot at objectivity. And so they grudgingly consented. All that remained was for each side to choose a representative.

The obvious candidates were Yesterday and Tomorrow, seeing as it was they who had started it all, but as they were not on speaking terms this was deemed impractical. After some deliberation, the Past nominated a distinguished Day from A While Back, who had a tendency to begin every sentence with, "Back in my day..."

The Future, meanwhile, chose a particular Day from Twenty Years From Now, who, despite his mildly infuriating habit of quoting "the research" in a rather condescending manner, had a knack for winning debates.

In a surprisingly short time, they had all assembled around Today, who was quickly beginning to regret his proposal.

The representative of the Past spoke first. He rambled on for a long while in a monotone about the primacy of the Past, raising his voice ever-so-slightly to emphasize certain lines, such as "It is the mistakes of the Past which pave the way to the achievements of the Future" and "back in my day, it was well understood that the Future is but a shadow of the Past." (The vast majority of Days had fallen asleep by now, but they were abruptly woken at the conclusion of the speech by the enthusiastic applause of the speaker's Year.)

The representative of the Future then rose to speak. His speech was concise and professional, occasionally supplemented by complex graphs and charts, (which the Past couldn't help but be impressed by). It was, however, cut short when he made the grave mistake of describing the Past as "primitive," which drew cries of outrage from the scandalized Past. The Future retaliated by chanting, "Pri-mi-tive! Pri-mi-tive!" — an act which so angered one Medieval Day that he lunged at them, shouting, "Blasphemy! Blasphemy!" before being restrained by some nearby Days. (It took an entire Week to subdue him, although in all fairness they were mostly Sundays, which are not known for their efficiency.)

The assault, though unsuccessful, removed any remaining pretense of formality and politeness. Accusations and insults now flew freely between the two camps, while Today feebly attempted to restore order.

One autumn Day from the Distant Future (whom the Future had previously considered nominating as their representative, and who was therefore eager to have his voice heard,) called for silence, and demanded that the Past apologize for what he claimed was essentially "partying at the expense of the Future."

Several Days from the Dark Ages responded to this by pointing out that the Past was hardly a picnic, and that they were more than willing to trade places if the Future so desired. This sparked another chaotic shouting match over whether or not the Days of the Past had it more difficult than the Days of the Future.

It was at this point that the Very Last Day (who was in a rotten mood, having just woken up from his speech-induced nap), over shouted them all, declaring that if they wouldn't quit bickering, he'd tell them How It All Ends and spoil History for everybody. What's more, he added, while he neither knew nor cared which Day was to blame for what, he did know that he wasn't particularly enamored with the way Today was shaping up.

A murmur of assent rippled through the crowd. At last, the Past and Future were in agreement!

And so the Days, thoroughly exhausted from all the fighting, voted unanimously to blame all their troubles and difficulties on Today, who was now sobbing pitifully some distance away.

And that is how it came to be that of the vast amount of Days that make up the mysterious creation called Time, Today is the very worst day of all.

The streets are deserted; the cars are done beeping
It is silent, apart from the willow tree's weeping
And even old Mr. McRoger is sleeping.

            (Mr. McRoger, I'm sure you have guessed,
            Is a make-believe man who does not like to rest.

            Although, when he finally does get to bed,
            His sleep is so deep you'd have thought he was dead!

            ...You'd have thought so,
                     if not for the sound of his snoring
            which some of his neighbors have trouble ignoring.
            But back to our story, before it gets boring)

Not one suicidal remains on the bridge!
Not one midnight snacker is left in the fridge!
All are asleep on this side of the lake.
And if all are asleep ...

                            ... why are YOU still awake?

It is dark, which surely you know means it's night
And the thing to be done is to put out the light
And if the thing to be done's not the thing that you do
Then SOMETHING inside must be bothering you!

You're much too mature
and clever, I'm sure
        To be frightened of monsters
and things that might **** you

You're not old enough
to be stressed about stuff
        Such as taxes, and how much
the grocery might bill you

SO ...

If it's dark and it's night and your age isn't three
And you don't pay for food cause you get it for free
Then there's only one thing it can possibly be

You, my friend, must be the sort of young lad
Who can't fall asleep cause he's simply too sad.

I know how you're feeling; I've seen it before
You feel like you just can't go on anymore

You've sunken so deep and you've fallen so low
That you think,
            "Just how low can I possibly go?
            Of all the lows, this one's the lowliest spot.
            Can I go any lower? Why, no, I cannot."

Well, I'm here to tell you, you can and you will!
In just a few days you will sink lower still!
And lower and lower and lower UNTIL...
THIS low will seem like the top of a hill!

UNLESS ...

Things COULD get better.
They COULD, but they WON'T.
They could and they should and they would,
                               but they DON'T.

SO ...

Since you must be exhausted
from digging that deep,
You may as well
just go to sleep.

This is a poem.

I wrote it because I'm sad

and if somebody likes it,
maybe they'll say so

which might make me less sad for a little bit.

It’s hard to define just what makes it so fun;
The comic relief, or perhaps it’s the thrill
But if you’d ask us which game was our favorite one,
It’s Pushing the Wheelchair Down Roseberry Hill.

No-one in town recalls how it all started,
But it soon became part of our daily routine:
To the hilltop the handicapped kid would be carted,
And we’d laugh as he fell, till he couldn’t be seen.

Oh, the terrified look that he gets in his eyes!
And that whimper, I tell you, it never gets old.
Nor does the echoing sound of his cries
As he tumbles and bounces; it’s comedy gold!

We don’t know his name; see, the poor kid is mute.
Luckily, though, he still knows how to scream
He screams all the way down, which we find rather cute,
Then we do it again, till we run out of steam

Now, now — there’s no need to feel bad for the kid;
The screaming and crying are all just for show!
It can’t actually bother him much; if it did,
He’d man up and stop being handicapped, no?