Sunday, December 11, 2005
As if by Rote
Sometimes there are ways of knowing what to say, and what not to say in advance. Sometimes our choices are clear and the tricky bit is deciding which choice to choose; multiple fates hang in the balance, culled to singularity by the destinies we select on our fleeting, narcissitic whims and fancies.
Yet sometimes all we have is a sense of being a puppet in the story, or perhaps game, of some higher being, and there is only one particular path to walk; one set of keys to a single door. One permissable answer to every question...
Moments are allowed to slip away, silences are mandatorily respected. It is almost a form of cinematic convention.
Mistakes are made, consciously.
Words are left unspoken, with difficulty.
Eyes meet, and are held, then glance away in slow motion; a moment is a celestial masterwork forged from nothing, flaring to painful, blinding brilliance for a brief instant - acknowledged, beheld... and then cast callously aside to to the floor, left unwatched and uncherished to fade to dull, pitted, unhoned normality with the cold passage of forgotten todays.
We toy with almost-fates in our infant minds, and then they are taken away from us, leaving us to wonder if the destiny that remains behind was even ever ours to choose.
Our subconscious minds rise up, palms pummeling desperately against the stained glass of our weary eyes - why can't you hear us - we are you? Don't!
But sometimes....
... we have only a script, which we are obliged to follow.
*****
A lifetime ago :
the asker was different.
the question was different.
the answerer was different.
The script was the same.
The answer was a white lie, to be uncovered years later.
*****
Several nights ago :
the asker was lost
the question was different
the answerer held his silence for a moment, straining to ignore the voices behind his eyes.
The script was the same.
The answer, a white lie.
Yet sometimes all we have is a sense of being a puppet in the story, or perhaps game, of some higher being, and there is only one particular path to walk; one set of keys to a single door. One permissable answer to every question...
Moments are allowed to slip away, silences are mandatorily respected. It is almost a form of cinematic convention.
Mistakes are made, consciously.
Words are left unspoken, with difficulty.
Eyes meet, and are held, then glance away in slow motion; a moment is a celestial masterwork forged from nothing, flaring to painful, blinding brilliance for a brief instant - acknowledged, beheld... and then cast callously aside to to the floor, left unwatched and uncherished to fade to dull, pitted, unhoned normality with the cold passage of forgotten todays.
We toy with almost-fates in our infant minds, and then they are taken away from us, leaving us to wonder if the destiny that remains behind was even ever ours to choose.
Our subconscious minds rise up, palms pummeling desperately against the stained glass of our weary eyes - why can't you hear us - we are you? Don't!
But sometimes....
... we have only a script, which we are obliged to follow.
*****
A lifetime ago :
the asker was different.
the question was different.
the answerer was different.
The script was the same.
The answer was a white lie, to be uncovered years later.
*****
Several nights ago :
the asker was lost
the question was different
the answerer held his silence for a moment, straining to ignore the voices behind his eyes.
The script was the same.
The answer, a white lie.
