Spiritual Inertia
I was standing in a resting train, which is ironic, as I was on-board for my final rest. I was alone in the railroad car, untethered to life, no wrist strap from which to secure myself. Since "you can't take it with you," I wasn't holding on to anything.
Destination? Who knew?
When the train began to move, only my feet moved with it, but my body fell behind. I stumbled backward. My conscience, in contrast, had no feet and it hit the wall.
Or did the wall hit my conscience?
Or were my conscience and the train back wall meant to be conjoined, and some ethereal physics simply finalized the prophecy?
This required considerable thought.
The air (æther?) in the train moves when the engine engages, moving back a little as it sloshes to the back, although I know that that very same air, eventually, will accelerate.
All this time I thought my conscience worked in a vacuum. I thought it was private, intangible, immoveable. Now I know that all my parts, including my spiritual parts, are affected by momentum, defying inertia. Defying the very air I seem to still be breathing.
And defying relativity:
I see others on other trains through their car windows—seemingly faster or backwards, and my own motion is bemusing.
I don't know where I'm heading, but somehow I bought the ticket.
The æther will stabilize at some point, and my spirit will drift back as it expands between the wall and me.
But it takes time for the air to keep up, accrue on its springboard, and snap me back to the middle of the car where my feet are still firmly anchored. But the æther—my very breathlessness—won't accelerate it as much as the train. The external forces of good and evil are at work. There are track switches ahead as the rail splits toward different destinations.
This railroad is the track of my life, with stops—selected in the past—driving the rail switches now.
The train comes to a stop. My spirit drifts back, forward, in a reverse of how I had started. Do I get off here? Is looks like here and now, as before, I have a choice.
No More Keystrokes
It’s the end of the line, so just add the final punctuation and be confident of what’s on my screen. Take a step away from the computer, go stretch or walk to clear my mind. Then come back for one final edit to objectively read the sentences previously scrutinized so many times that they turned into a muddy puddle of ideas.
When I reach the definitive end of the line, when I have checked for grammatical errors and cohesion, I won’t overthink what I’ve composed. I won’t feel the need to keep writing because doing so risks repeating myself or insulting the reader. If clarification is indeed required, I’ll try using less words because more is rarely the solution. Revising what is already there, making it succinct, is a better option.
Can I say, with conviction, that the ideas I put down comprise a lucid story which is worth someone’s time to read? If “Yes,” than there’s nothing more to add beyond the end of this line.
Maybe if i had knees, he would have listened?
A worm on a hook praying not be prey,to Cod below.
Please let it be another beak,preferably a crow.
They say Looking skyward is much better than looking into the marine depths of hell.
You know i can't see,but I know the deathly stench of a fishy smell.
I can't swim he screams back at the man with the pole.
His twisted grin on his salt water face as he lights his bowl.
Closer to the edge of his demise,a violent wave,he's pulled into the hull, and he lets out a big sigh.
Suddenly, an escaped walleye swallows him whole.Why great Cod was i born with no arms,legs,or eyes?!
The period of it all.
Oh how I write to you
you never know its you I'm talking to
But me I don't know me
Or maybe I don't know us?
I know you though
I know the hurdle in the shape of a block
All your glories and pain
At the same time putting us out of our misery
Yes we still have the wrist twisting and apprehension
Was my words deposited sufficient to your liking
How I use you though everytime I do
I'm not finished
Just like now how you'll wait for me patiently but it will bring me all the agony just to finish a thought and the little absurd point of it all to make it to
the end of the line.