Forgot

We each have stories. Most untold. Then they are gone. Life is like a fire. Match. Pilot light. Flame. FIRE. Whatever was there is gone. Someone else can take over and tell the story that is gone. It fiddles out. Fiddles because I can’t remember the right word. Words leave. Everything leaves at some point.

Which reminds me. What is the difference between a fiddle and a and a and a now the word is gone. It was there a second ago a second ago a …

My stories don’t get published because they are meaningful to my brain but meaningless outside of my brain. Critics are fine. They know do’s and don’ts and where the apostrophe is supposed to go. They also know what fits in and what should slip out. Slipping out is fun and my preference.

“You’re on a slippery slide” is what I must have been told, but now I can’t remember so I just let words come out and fool around on an invisible page. Sometimes the words are inappropriate because words are picked each ten years to represent inappropriateness. Oh it’s a slippery slope, not a slide.

Crazy people can do and say almost anything and be forgiven. Crazy is a confusing term. I’ve discovered that it is normal to use the F word on public sites, but if you say something is tirdy then people are shocked. I’m not sure of the spelling.

So rambling is perfectly fine. I’d throw in some quotes from famous inspiring people, but I can’t remember them. Notice how so many educated people are on Zoom in front of their libraries. Right before this corona-thing took over, I was clearing my books. I had done that for years, but amped it up. French and English literature, African art, all kinds of art books. Just read about someone who had all his life-long journals and artwork gone in a fire. That is true life.

True life is in the moment. Right now. That last moment was gone in a flash. Our memories, too. But we do pass along our life through our genes. Your offspring. A new completely different you. Something about You is tucked in there spinning around in the cells. Well, maybe trees have some of your cells from dead skin that floated off of you and got caught in leaves…Trees do speak to each other. Maybe human beings have contributed to the language of trees.

This spun off somewhere and I can’t remember what the point is. In the beginning I said words leave and now I’ve spun off to trees. This leaves me wondering if this piece is writing itself and trying to get to a point. I’m waiting to get fired from Medium. Fire me and then I’ll start all over.