its a title

The world began on a warm winter afternoon sometime around four, or quite possibly a cool summer morning at exactly 7:15. It’s always hard to sort out the beginning of things they tend to get themselves blurred between the end of itself and the middle of someone else. Not that any of these matters. No one ever remembers the beginning. There is no peril, no unhappiness, no moral dilemma just a simple once upon a time. This could possibly be their own beginning, which is the worst way for anything to have begun. Its moral standoff is already written, the pity has been spent. So lets us start without a once or an upon let us know that there was merely a time when the world began.

In a world much different then your own with exactly the same trees and people doing exactly the same thing as they are doing now; even you are doing your same routine day in and day out. Were you blindly walking though the patterns that have been created to keep everyone at the beginning. There is only one small difference between the world you began and the world that is, you are not you and they are not them. Here is the place you stayed the same you followed all the rules were content and led a life dutiful to your fellow man and country. Though again we miss the point this isn’t about you its about her, its about them. The dreams and failures of those dreams. Let us get back and rejoin the fight but don’t worry we skipped past the beginning, the introductions, the development we skipped straight to what you wanted to hear.

                                                          The death.

Not your conventional death with tears of a mother morning its child or a soul softly whimpering for its heart. this was a death that no one felt that no one took notice of. there is no written account of its birth but it was there, I'm sure of that, it was there. Then everything began and it was gone. No forwarding address no replacement crew just a beginning with an emptiness. no one calling out for some heart felt apology for the in convince of what they were feeling. No screams, mutters of denial passing it off as a forged memory of a forgotten dream, for how could it of existed if there was no beginning. it is impossible to believe an ending with no context of existing. If anyone had notice its passing the past or future would have noted that this moment was the start not the one known today by every breath that has been and will be taken. Silence your objections let go of that feeling of pride that you are different that you knew, would have know, will know. This is a coward’s way of boasting his way in to hero’s shoes. You are stuck in the beginning there is no help for you or from you.

A story with no context the empty feeling in the pit of your stomach hunger gnawing at you over some long forgotten regret like that of a storm suck out at sea desperately moaning to crash on the shore.   Today  awoke as any day does with the suns arrival and the moons farewell. The world slowly came alive with the groaning of machines fighting against the cogs that force them to turn.  How do we meet what’s already gone a question that plagued her mind every tic echoed in her skull  gone gone gone  all of them lost in the vast sea of armchair travels fall back into the lapping waves of cotton and polyester the tips of their fingers beginning to turn to whither fruit yet no one splashes or struggles against their fate. Compliment to the second son, the weaver of dreams, and guardian of children. Creating a dance played across the faces mimicking the horror and sadness placed before them without feeling a thing. pulling them in deeper as blood turns to cotton and their skin takes on  the texture of cheap polyester suit meant only for those trying to reclaim their footing but their blurry and fig righted eyes says its only an act “ I'm not better I'm going to fail, you  wont see it coming”. Your guessing  again does not lie to me I can see the cogs slowly turning catching every now and then trying to make sense and draw conclusions. Acutest some life altering meaning from the text before “Is she her”, “Are they everyone” “I'm glad I’m not them” “Am I her”. Stop. Your editing and changing a context that doesn’t exist you made these choices created a world of impatient and action your complaining about this death that was promised instead being forced to listen to the ticking of polyester waves its imminent, that’s where were going a death can not be rushed even with a murder there is an art to chaotic struggle, to  take another breath. Maybe you should be asking the  most important questions, is it you.  Don’t recoil in such horror and scoff aghast at such an accusation you have already taken a life your no saint pure or possessed what would keep you from ending the existence of one with out a beginning 

     Digression it plagues ones mind bring up arguments to prove your truth disorganizing and corrupting a  prose you rip apart every line looking for a reason distracting quite you mind and listen I’d hate to ignore you or leave you all tougher before we’ve even hinted at an ending. Let’s move onward seeking death.