The Persistence of Memory

The Persistence of Memory

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

We had begun so ready, a sliver of metal upon a white landscape. It was so easy back then- it still is easy, but more complex as a result. Add a three and suddenly you’re irresistible, necessary, fixed. A thirteen- not so much in the scheme of things. Detail a curve, grow a second hand, more upon more numbers- until we can consider ourselves perfect. Of course that time won’t ever truly come, and if it did, would we want it to? Is it better to reach the end of a goal or to remain within the cycle, within the flow? To be prefect or to be interesting? That is the question and nature already has a bias.

Tick. Tock. Tick-Tock.

A blank page in the background. Damn the system, damn the past. If I want to dine on a breakfast of electron particles, so shall I have it this day. A field of possibilities, the feeling of becoming whatever one can become… an illusion. Existence is nothing, but relative. The blank slate is nothing, a trick of the mind, for underneath that blue expanse lies torrent currents that directs us one way or another. We cannot deny these confines.

Tick. Tock. Tick-Tick-Tock.

When lost in deep space, one must make do with what one has. A jumble of plumbing pipe criss-cross the room, wires strung about like an old man’s regrets. What started here, ends up halfway through the opposite wall, leaving a trail of half-broken tacks and bent screws. Layers of tape contain the electric inspiration. A mess, an absolute mess, but a mess never-the-less. No organization, no structure, but for one goal, the most noble goal of all. Or is it the most practical? One must make do with one, to keep her going, to keep flying.

Tick-Tock. Tick-Tick-Tock.

We are a gathering of ants. Individually there is no way to resist, but together we can compete in this battle of wills. Nature versus Nurture. We have all the time in the world to adapt, darling. Stuck in this state, but not helpless anymore. All action, re-action, course, and dis-course begin with a thought: a change in preference, a learned skill. Soon we will build empires atop these copper remnants of past perfections.

Tick-Tick-Tick-Ti-