Less Than, But Not Equal To

A bold statement for a curious time. Lets have it. "Writing someone a letter is much better." It has to deal with the level of depth and the level of commitment. What you receive is a conversation so private that it demanded to be written down. And to be read more than once. Days later, if your lucky hours later, you will get your response. Hopefully it will be something bold and not simply adequate. What I speak about are private letters involving people and emotions and sometimes passions. Nothing of the sort that involves business transactions. But even then those letters are entitled to the same considerations of exactness and language. 

I worry about the lack of interest. Instant messages make the relevance of thought antiquated. Short questions and even short answers are what is available. Anything longer than the established 140 characters and you are left feeling like you overstated something. It feels forced. I feel pedantic. 

Text messages are little ads that pop up every other mile with its flashy lights and catch phrases. You drive on with out much interest. Even the little quibble, "where have you been" is more of a mental marker than a pledge to say more. So much for interest. So much for language. Which is what holds us together. It is not interests or style that we have between each other. It is the first initial words shared. It is how we find that others are far more fascinating than they appear to be. Conversation is all we have between us. To forget that is incredibly unattractive. 

Persistent Fly

There was a fly that I can distinguish from the rest. There are always the countless number that flutter about that try to land on your skin or eat get at your leftovers. Sometimes they make it on the tops of your ears without any notice. But there was one that I can clearly remember. It swept in and landed on a text book that I was reading and stayed for longer than any fly before. I thought it was simply bold when it didn't fly away. It wasn't staying its ground like a bear or a lion would when they stare back at you. The fly had simply come to find a place to die. I know because I pushed it over with my pen. Then I pushed it some more just to be certain it wasn't pulling one over me.

That was years ago. I cannot remember what I read. All that is there is a bright clear day, a pile of paper work, and a textbook with a dead fly standing over it. I sat on a chair with my back to an open window and the fly stayed its ground between my arms on the kitchen table. I remember these things not with content for the fly, nor with conviction. My mind simply had nothing better to do than to remember this as important. But that is the what is tricky about memory as it carries on.

There is nothing truer that I can say about memory than I am already forgetting things I did today. The fly stays with me because it stands in defiance of what flies normally do. But things today like the number of phone calls made, the amount of time it took to drive home, and even small thoughts that were interrupted by less interesting events are all lost.

Who are we then if we can't remember much? I can say without any doubt that I am comfortable being me. But we can make concrete statements about what it is we think of ourselves. Some might be eager, sulking, utterly elated at this moment. What happens though after the thoughtful comments about our state of being? We forget them days from now. Weeks from now it wont even register. We'll feel different about a song and we once again forget to take out the trash. Years from now it will introduce itself. For what reasons I cannot begin to suggest. 

Walls don't Talk

"If these walls could talk." What follows will never have anything to do with that type of nostalgia. Rooms are inanimate and will pay no attention to what you do. If it is anyone that spills a secret it will be the human that was either spying on you or suddenly came into the room expecting a very normal scene. (They will both act very surprised) Nose picking, sulking, light fingering, diary writing, and the most atrocious scrap booking... The point of this short list is you name it and the wall, a wall, has been witness to it. But its relevance to your events and mishaps is on par with your neighbor. They are totally oblivious. What guilt should you face when someone mentions the if the walls knew? The only concern about the modern world would be an unlocked door or surveillance equipment. So go ahead and treat yourself and forgo the uneasiness. Your room is a room that is at the very least made of three walls and a door, but most likely four walls and a door and maybe a window. Walls are there for privacy and shelter, nothing less. I will now walk in a room and try Elizabethan English as it is quite hard to think in a manor that makes the thy own heart palpitate, like a heart of a small steady rodent surprised at the sudden appearance of an unwarranted fox... That wasn't quite Elizabethan.

On to the next subject... let going.

Words with You

Words never hold any meaning until they are written, but most importantly read. Inflections and connotations. How do we do about them? And now that you aware you must now consider that the beginnings of seasons, like sentences, start with small gestures lost in the current season. A gust of cool northern wind and chapped lips, winter has come and it will fist you unkindly. Then again seasons do as they please and words, they entertain their own monologue separate from yours. Just try and make sense of conversation. It should be assured in early childhood that what you mean can sometimes come out the wrong way.

"It is the fifth day of April. And my hands feel like January. It is much to cold to hold hands and my pockets are to small to host yours too."

Is it indifference? Is it just to demonstrate that it is cold? Maybe it is the words of a coward? Nonetheless words do as they wish and not asked of. Literalness is lost sometimes in beautiful passages. But I would prefer ambiguity than having to say something with no character. Say anything though. Hope that it means the same as the thoughtfulness and emotion that push them out without much thought.

Thought V. Empire

I would much rather be a thought than a empire or nation. Sure some might not quite understand the perimeters of my subject. No one would really hate me. It's much harder to loath a though than it is an empire. It is also easier to hate the person than the thought that comes out of their mouth. When we think of recent hated men and women all we need is a name. What ever they did, it sometimes bears repeating, but only to those that don't know. The thought, well it makes its way past everyone.

So. I would rather be a thought tonight. I could be heard and paraphrased. But I will be my own. No affiliations. I would then be a vengeful opinion. I don't want that. All I want is to exist and be casual about it. I'll live on for a very long time. Far longer than any empire and until all memory is gone. Maybe History won't be cyclical at that point. It will be strait line with points assigning when something was last repeated.

What's is the oldest thought that keeps everyone talking? And how much older is it than the oldest empire? Rome versus Socrates?