He was wondering, just now, whether other people, supposedly whole people, spent as much time thinking about themselves, as in like an evaluative manner. The whole process was like a cosmically immense gyred pathway; although, he supposed, it ended here, since he had just murdered his wife, so was pretty much a bad person. If a good person murders a person, he becomes a bad person. At least life would be simpler now.


He was sitting by the river waiting for the authorities to respond to her 911 call. Guessing that the average response time was about 25 minutes out here, unless police had just happened to be cruising around nearby. He figured he would be considered armed and dangerous, but had already tossed the revolver into the river, and intended to go peacefully. Could smell her blood on his hands and clothes. She had looked peaceful, after.


It was a spot on the river that was quite loud. Rocks and ledges impediments to flow, the water’s constant cursing at the high, hard curved, carved granite bank. Seemed unfair that not all drops of water comprising the river got to enjoy the extreme cataracts; the water at the inside of the turn was shallow, placid. Did it choose that life? Will it always hug the shore, eventually finding its way to the ocean, peacefully, mildly? All water finds its way to the ocean, eventually.


He supposed it was how essential water was to life that drew people to contemplate beside its meanderings. A fluid composed of metaphors, compelling and calming and slightly hypnotic. Rivers held answers. He could jump in now and float away and batter himself against rocks and get caught in a hole at the bottom to be spun around for hours like a front loading washer until the flow dropped tomorrow and the river spat him out blue and torn and free safe away. In the after.


If time is only a constraint of experiencing the all and a constraint imposed by consciousness, then he should be able to free himself of that constraint by compelling his consciousness to ignore time. To be in time is to be floating in a river from one place to another and to be out of time is to remove oneself from the river and step back and view the river as it is and the all that surrounds it. In which case he could casually stroll along the bank upstream to before the moment where he forgot he was a human and gave in to animal passion and could convince his bobbing self as it passed that spot again to skip the double homicide, eddy up in a motel near town, drink a bottle of whiskey and piss away a couple hundred bucks on stud poker. He was a rational person and would listen to himself. But now the valley was pulsing purple on the arrival of the law and time continued forward and would from now on take a much longer route to the ocean.


This entry was posted in Vaguely Lucid. Bookmark the permalink.

Speak already!

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s