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Diary
By technician (Sun May 17, 2015 at 12:23:32 AM EST) (all tags)
You see those skies?

(A reflection on older writings)



Huge, open, empty. Those skies, they are scary with how open they are, like a chasm, your stomach flips looking into them.

Gigantic.

The whole horizon.

There's always a way, a road, a path, a method. There will always be a formula, a series of steps to follow. The method makes the man. All those choices between you and the horizon.

All those choices.

You've done the math in hindsight, you've looked deep into the mechanism that made you here, today. The gears and machinery that created what you are, now, here.

You, this glorious monster. You, a collection of decisions, forks in roads chosen, the way you've decided to come. Focused on the past and some indefinable future, lost in the long now. A river of sand, shifting.

The way you look at the sky. That lost look, wanting. Needing the vectors and approaches. Towers, ladders, rooftops, rockets, you need ascension. The way you long for the stars. The way you look at your past, inevitable and maybe with some regret, maybe with a lot of regret. Maybe with just a tiny bit.

The thing about the desert is, it's trying to kill you. And maybe ice flows and mountains and forests and jungles are the same in that regard, maybe. But the desert lays it bare, wants you to be fully aware of the approach, the trap, the end. The thing about the desert is, it is huge, and limitless, those horizons are everywhere. The thing about the desert? You'll never reach those horizons. Dessicated and dead before you ever get there, you're a fossil before you know it. Bleached and poorly preserved, sand blasted, sun baked, finished.

Growing up with that awareness, you get very careful about your choices, each step. You start to predict each action. You plan ahead for each contingency. Stoics do their best to imagine every bad thing that can happen, to allow them to appreciate the good. In the desert, you don't think about the possibility of good. There's no time for that; sand fills each step. Relentless, precise, no wasted motions, no extra parts. Efficiently trying to end you. It is good at what it does.

That's the heart breaking promise of those skies. That's the way the horizon works. It teases, it promises, but it is never something you can reach. It is as aware of that as you are. Placid, docile skies, calmly watching over your decisions. Your end comes, all your footsteps filled in with sand, no sign of your passing. No sign you ever existed. The lunacy of permanence in a place that shifts tons of earth a year, it's been beaten out of you by adolescence. No fertile moment, no expectation of growth. Just you, human, waiting. You're a single point, see?

Another folly, staring at the sky, dreaming.

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The city is a desert with its life underground by motty (4.00 / 1) #1 Sun May 17, 2015 at 02:09:45 AM EST
Also, thank you.

[removes dessicated lump of bolognese from keyboard with safety-pin]

I amd itn ecaptiaghle of drinking sthis d dar - Dr T

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