freewrite.

We are at the crossroads here, and as we sit here thinking about what the path ahead of us may show – we are still here thinking about all that may happen and there is another time when all of this would be ok, and yet, there we are and here are the words as they come from my finger tips, a much more quick movement from thought to realization – almost yet not quite as clear as from thought to speech – we are forever trying to replicate our brilliance in speech in the written word, and forever falling short. Perhaps this is the reason why I obsess over the possibility of carrying a microphone around with me wherever I go – the tidbits at least somewhat more comprehensible, relevant, and good in the speaking, the crumbs more delicious as audible bites than the stutter-step of the written word. And yet – I never come around to being able to do it, and I’m still thinking about what else there is that I could be writing about – and the stream of consciousness that is today is the art of tomorrow. Or maybe in this stream, there is no time – there is no today or tomorrow – only here and now – and we do not age, and we do not lose, and the immortality that we all are seeking can be found in the words that we speak without pause.

The spell is broken as we awake, and here we are in loneliness, for you are lost, at last.