May 30, 2017

we used to all

What was it like. To be alone in this world before. Before the nets came to our houses on the backs of copper cables, warbling chromatic chimes that rang out our anonymous intentions.

To sit on in the airport concourse alone, with only your thoughts and the realities of what is before you, suggestions of what isn't come only from the depths of your own ponderous mind.

How dark and deep seduction must have felt, just you and no one else but those strange burning sensations, the few short brushes of their hand, grasping for purchase on a shared arm rest.

No where to go but further into yourself, or, if you're lucky, the heavy tome you brought with you for moments such as this when the brutal force of other pounded into your own imagined solitude, from the inside of your temples, out.

There was no way of knowing of any beings other than those that you did encounter. The encountering itself was magical. That you should find someone who made you feel such unknown depths. That they should in fact exist, this thing you didn't know existed but that your deep dark soul had hoped, so unknowingly, for. And now it's here at your elbow, by happenstance. As luck would have it.

We used to all be lucky.

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