This side of tomorrow

Although this is subjective it has at its core an objective personification, I hope...

Although the end came and went I carried on typing because I didn’t want it to be the end as I was sitting with myself on the edge of everything, desire burning, and listening to many songs that spoke to me:

I am the moon shining so brightly above, how should I know what you can die of? Or what you can’t.

But please don’t mind me; I’m only talking to myself. I know of no other that pleases me so.

That’s the question then, isn’t it: can you live with yourself without dying?

Perhaps it is just a mathematical problem, a compound dilemma, some stars-cape we are all adrift in. Or perhaps it is something else entirely. How would one know?

I mean, really, how would one know? …

Memo: be kinder to myself at the very first opportunity.

Well, there’s always tomorrow to make me feel better; or the next day, I said to myself recklessly.

Tweet, tweet, tweet.

By now I just could not stop typing. I was hooked.

And then the question came: what are you typing about?

Well I’d done: tweet-tweet-tweet so I needed to think up another cause pretty soon or I’d be in trouble. And that’s when I said: oh-oh, I can hear big boots walking down the stairs, and stopping half way, and then carrying on, stomping down the stairs.

But was it the existential staircase in the rain, or the other one somewhere else that had big boots walking down it?

After asking myself this question for a very long time I came to the conclusion that there was no answer, and no escape, and so hid under the stairs, and closed the door really quietly.

Oh what was I typing now?

Timelines were running in to one another and making me see pieces here and there that I was trying to tag on to. And then I decided to go join the gin club instead.

As my big boots climbed down the stairs I wondered if I was in some kind of time warp that was keeping me here forever to be some kind of slave in the slush hour that happened every day.

Whatever… Pulling doubt out of my side I became immune and wondered if I should start another religion on the masses to believe in.

And then I thought that maybe I would think of other things that would send me somewhere else.

Thinking away I broke many records where the broken funny men were coming home and screaming about where they couldn’t belong but where they were coming from.

I bumped into them aside as they came at me; but there were too many of them.

And so I was brushed away in the mad rush as they came at me. And found myself shrinking inside to accommodate that smallness. So I growled to frighten away the evil demons that beset me and raged upon my night.

Oh, I raged this side of tomorrow and became a demon raging.

But life waits not upon the raging for tomorrow to be known.

No, I am not without my doubt, but if the benefit of my heart is open to you to give me good dreams, then that is what I expect; and if it does not happen then I will be looking for a full refund. Do I make myself clear, I said, as I typed away?

Of course you do dear; come back to bed.

But I do not believe in extra terrestrials beyond where I can count them.

It doesn’t matter this side of tomorrow where the poet burns the hours small of all his matter.

No, it doesn’t matter, but you better get into bed soon or it will be morning time again.

The next instalment may hit my tongue and memorise its way to paper tomorrow, or it may not…

Perhaps it is time to unchain our brave heroes and let them go on their way…

But oh, where are you now that I need rescuing? Where are your pale blues eyes? Where is your marble heart? Have you turned into a poem again and gone to bed without your supper?

And then one thousand words were built rapidly in the snowstorm that came from out of nowhere that said I know that nothing I say means anything in the face of her smile. So I carried on typing…

Image from Pixabay