Sugar on the windowsill, I should have put it back where it belongs. Yet another thing I neglected. I make the same mistake on repeat, like Lorde talks about her lover’s spit. A world alone, it’s enough to be different, sometimes.
I act as if people offer more than their quaint revelations. Perhaps at most an additional ten percent. The rest is my furtive imagination, but I cannot ignore encoded value in an artefact, even if the other person never sees it.
Still, at least one gives me hope, and that merits the vestiges of inspirational words. Is it a coincidence, that for whom I seek no outcome, there is a satisfactory reflection? I can extract the true value. I think others do not seek to be valued.
Often, I see the evidence arrive too late, and the sense of possessing the truth in a time capsule presents me as unrealistic, exacerbated by a perceptive lack of material aims. I’m Jean-Luc in Generations. The family is an illusion, and duty is in the frame.
It’s impossible to argue with myself. I do not care much about a career, it exists as a stabilising force, a contextual supplement. I have no visions of what lies in wait, but it cannot be much more of this. I give other people a chance in forestalling mastery. At the point I reveal myself, it is too late.
There has to be more, but in that tired cliché I realise I am in command, but is the world in need of such a man? I ask, like James Kirk, “what does God need with a star-ship?”. It seems a fraudulent proposition, to enable my own captaincy, under the auspices of a false motive.
I’m no stranger to defeat. Because “there is no rush when you don’t belong”, and no sugar is enough to see folded hands, when open palms, present a wondering of what might become. Still, I only see the mirror crack, and I’m not fond of the hologram.