somewhere after little bits of solitude started creeping into the narrative, constant and growing, small silences growing into larger, like ink bleeding into water, as all things grow, life grew like a monster into the distance, as a speed blur haemorraging change providing everything a human might ever need in a few more lifetimes, and I became, quite miraculously the slowest creature on the bridge of hot coals, with no way but toward, burning all the time, and quite soon charred and lifeless. and I kept stopping, with my newfound solitude, refusing to let go, as life was screaming, as were my feet. as with all pains, after a few years, the massive damage became a matter of course, of growth even, and that which was lost, quite invisible and unnecessary in the constant immediacy of pain and destruction, on which I added a few years, to take back silence. and what happens after we can no longer feel our feet, when there is no ground left to feel even if we wanted to, I was pretty sure I was done, this was it, the soft light coming on was the rest that was now some predatory dream. but apparently what happens after we discard the mortal shell as being completely totalled, is some kind of preternatural affinity of sound, possibly a return of the slavering animal from a few thousand years ago. a natural regression of sorts. the excess of sound perception was just as beautiful and addictive as the pockets of solitude, and I gained the courage to sit down on the hot coals, and remove more of the mangled motion that became pointless in quite a flood. its quite likely that a cool evening walk for pleasure, is permanently obliterated from my future. at some point of hopefulness, maybe 19, I had a vision of how this would come to pass, but I always assumed with a childs naive optimism that I would sleep on it, and the glass house, would once again, become perfectly feasible. And then again at 28, that I would go to a new country, and ta daa. but really, when my hair drops, and something feral is all I have left, all civilization quite melts away as if it never were. Except perhaps the state of self-preservation. That one is switched off, I dont know how to egg it alive again. The music constantly grows, louder and more nuanced. Not quite frightening, but what is, not quite inspiring, but what is, just sort of there, the knowledge of it, the insistence that no this, not that, a wildly undemocratic preferential, the absolute worst, because the pendulum, its in a corner, and gravity isnt working. as is other natural law, theres no way I should be still around, charred, broken and almost entirely invisible. this phase is personal, amorphous and uncontrolled, free of solid rulebooks, and all mine. It offers some kind of basal rhythm for charting the forward to the final destination, as it always were. now, a few months from now. we, every last one of us, will no longer be, in another 100 years, but im quite content now to hear the occasional musics of the other billions than try to meet every last one alive. turns out, we are boringly repetitive, and unless we can add a tune to it, the circles get frighteningly into dots, and there is nothing left to add, that might, in a 100 years, bring about something new, fresh and hopeful. Im no longer quite as detached as I would like, I have to reach in further to find silence. But at least its not so gaussian any longer.
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