The first dreams were
built out of lego,
casted over plastic base
they seemed impervious.
The real ones are
built out of bricks,
casted over impermeable plans
they seems feeble than ever.
Shall we go back to
the lego days,
when minds were still plastic,
but will, inexorable.
The week before last week, or last last week as the 12 year old me would say, I was in
conversation with a wise friend. Our conversation shifted to domain names, and the ubiquitous nature of them – always unavailable. My friend says it’s about being quick – finding alternatives. I say it’s about being lucky.
Perhaps it’s both, or neither. Either ways ‘unavailable’ is a tag attached unto many. And perhaps lucky enough to find an alternative is the next best thing there is. If so, then we must be a collection of alternative happenings, for a perfect collinearity of reality and want is a myth, existent only in the boxes of geometry.
If so, then we must be a wayward jumble of alternatives – shaped by all the things we couldn’t have. Thinking of ourselves as the next best alternative is rather strange, like looking at oneself not in the mirror but from the other side of the mirror.
Week 15 of writing a snippet a week, mostly on a Saturday. There are some cheat weeks of course, like Monday or a Tuesday.
Bruises are like baits,
opening up wounds
from the start.
Or why should
each of them be bandaged?
Or why should they send down
shrills of pain, always.
Inktober with digital ink with a twist of poetry.
