Why then these dark days — now. The past
wore a whiter gown, the firm ground spoke
in softer tones then, hushed hues of no dawn
when once I dared to tread her path
towards a garden, safe — and secret.
Those days were not as these days are —
fragments of a past
becoming a future
unwanted.
Silence. Darkness. Dreams.
I crave winter. Snorting snow. Dreaming
— Manual Override: power
off still
of virtues lost
among
men
evanescent
.
I have no fear
of being forgotten; turn into mist
drifting
towards the memoryless. No past. No
garden to nurture. A future is a hope
I cannot sustain — solitude a menace
sans lipstick. I have no fear
of being forgotten — I am already
that.
“You claim to have in your possession recorded … evidence … from my initial assessment. I spoke with you then — what evidence, did I? I have no memories of, as you put it, committing … to life,” the old man said, then slowly rose from the congenial couch and staggered towards the warbling water cooler. “I am old, too old for all these … sentience shenanigans. Tired of … being tired. If life is not a certitude and merely a merciless way out I would very much like an audience with the Scribbler; there is substance needing scrutiny. I am not going back there. Not I. Never.”
“The truth is —” she wheezed, “life’s not for everyone. There’ll be days when you’ll want to give it back, to return here, expecting to find peace in the comfort of the Scribbler. Muse on that brief motif, then seek at heart the answer needing your attention: you’re sure you’re ready — to commit?”
