There
are remembered only so many words, idle in my mind that I may beckon to rouse
at the pause of lip-biting thought.
There are only so many sentences that may challenge the
bravery of defining one’s inexpressible moment.
Those that may cross the invisible divide of experience, of reality, falling from our mind’s consciousness to appear as life lived on paper, these words,
these reviving revelations, the envoys of experience, flowing as uncontrollable as water in a river,
forever elsewhere, as the untamed stains and ink-scribbled seizures of thought.
There is
only so much time we can pour within the confines of our hands, however carefully
cupped, hoping for more and more and more only to watch it spill away, over,
and about, seeping and sifting through, wasting from what we cannot pause in
escape, vanishing before our aging eyes.
There
is only so much fresh line layered unto our spool, waiting to unravel by way of
our mightiest heave. Even with a gale of
accompaniment at our backs, there is only so far a cast-hunger can ever
explore in its radial reaches.
There
are only so many seconds, before there are no longer enough, for which that seeking-cast he placed was just in time. Before
its splashing entry about the surface was too late. Before her head is aimed
elsewhere, and her interest is won to another. Before the radially-splayed filaments of her
tail thrust against her liquid element, her very life-blood, and the freedom of her motion surges scores and
scores of distance, underwater, away, farther, deeper, never nearer, ever
again. His chance, had. The limit of his encircling acceptances tested, deafened and disinherited by these very limitations he inadvertently chose to breathe amongst. Those challenged by chance, by design, by fate, by
error, by impracticality, by inexperience.
