From a Notebook Lost: The Same and The Other 4 and 5

by mudrhetoric

Now it came to pass on a certain time on each day that this would come to pass. What this was I was not sure of, but sure of. But I know that is will happen every day at this certain time of that I am sure or not. And so it did, I mean came to pass on that certain time on each day, and so it did. Now particular persons, of whom I did not know but saw, wanted to see this come to pass, so they did, and also this particular persons did, I mean saw this come to pass at a certain time on each day. So on this day, this particular persons saw this come to pas on a certain time on each day. As it is, it is. As it was, it was. As it will be, it will be. So it is, was, and will be, and that is that and this is this.

 

And as I walk towards on unseen goal, perhaps once forgotten and not altogether remembered, but yet it lingers, as if to say, “I’m here just waiting for you and I am waiting at the appointed time.” Yet somehow it always seem to be lost in the mix of things, and stays until it has grazed and become old, but still it waits as it hobbles about in a somewhat decrepit manner longing to be remembered, and hoping to be done. But it waits, yet even now, if you look and stretch your mind to its utmost point, you’ll see it withering away to dust and disappearing to nothingness. How its saddened, forlorn face seem to pierce your soul, making you sorrowful for all you have and have not done, for making it wait. How sad it looks, derelict and falling to pieces, for serrated are its shallow remains left only for us to cry over. Its gaze be what we remember always, for grief as such has never crossed a human eye. Its unsaid emotion, desire, never feels, so it died of starvation. For all goals need to be fed. How can we replace such a rift in our inner being? We cannot. So we live on with an ache, groaning of which we cannot rid ourselves of. Until the day in which we had forgotten, will eat away at us, until like the goal we go into nothingness.

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