It flutters, wings, a beat and a hush before a slow meandering breeze, chaos theories, how you and me and everyone we know, converging with our little lives, a little lost, a little slow, we curve and carve little histories as we embark, out in the night, into the dark, our passing lives like little sparks.
We connect, break and fall apart, rearrange, stay the same or never lift off from our starts, we carry suitcases, we carry hearts, we carry memories with misery or merrily, branching out like canopies, we sway in the breeze, we lose our leaves, we dry and wither, we fall to earth to dust to soil, and we all give back no matter how we end, what we expel always comes back in again.
A tick of a clock against the stillness of a rock, sands of time, or ball and twine, unravel tapestries of fluidity, amorphous and amorous, from chance to serendipity and the distance between a day in the sun and a sleeping eternity.
Life takes all chances and spreads them apart, sprawling out in similarities, diverging, converging, emergence between shifting walls of time running forward or backward, inward and outward, spread out like little pockets in a universe of motion, of movement and how that echoes in time, how a moment is never truly lost but stored both in the recesses of a mind and as something that was, that is and that will be, all at once and over again.
It becomes quiet when you see the little heralds of the things that will be, everything becomes much bigger than it initially seemed, like a complicated machine or a symphony composed of symmetry and asymmetry and I am just a small part in it all, so frail, so small, a human singularity, singular I fall, the construct of reality deconstructing my reality.
Excerpt from a stream of consciousness writing.