I think I’ve seen the world as it will be, but that might have been a mistake.
The voices, real and imagined, pretty much all said do it.
But I can count on the fingers of one amputated hand how many times the voices, real and imagined, have been right.
I lived a lifetime of failure within structure, and now that’s gone, replaced by an endless freedom to fail.
Quiet times are the worst, when the voices, all of them imagined but one, my own, come.
Louder times, spent in the company of people or amusements, I think of as distractions.
And both come with a feeling, a gnawing, like the scraping of a stone tool against my bones.
And in the wake of all this, come the times when I tell myself I will create worlds, unimagined.
When I limit my distractions to coffee and mid-afternoon panic, and I shut off the world, all of it, the voices included.
And I tell myself, only I, that everything will be as I’ve seen it.
© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday