Relative Something

The following is culled from an item where writers practice stream of conscious writing. I wrote this Apr 21, 2007:

It was late. Very, very late. And not in the sense of past the date it was due, or in the sense of hours in the day. Nor even, as referenced to the portion of the century. Why, not even in comparison to when it was expected, since, in fact, it wasn’t, or isn’t, expected. But, alas, late it is and then there becomes this nagging concern for what the hell “it” is in the first place, or what place, first, really matters. Somehow if the words that try to show up in time to roll out of the finger tips that try to act naturally in a bizarre dance across little buttons called keys have enough ethereal energy to in some way appear cohesive… consciousness streams are a challenge to share as they tend not to be inclined toward a packaging that presents a convention of common communication with aspects that relate to things like making any sense and having any point. Then we get to look at them and deduce whatever it is that suits our fancy and inspires our harmonies of excitement potential. There it is, strewn all about in front of our eyes to be consumed and constructed into thoughts and ideas in a path through light into our optical sense mechanisms and then in no time at all, simply a chemical interaction through microscopic pathways in a mass of grey or gray, however the spelling suits, and then from chemical transactions to invisible, intangible concepts of varying logic and arguable reality. Swing past the constraints of late or not and wait for the muse of the artist to visit and tell you that you can change your mind at any time you want in order to try and get a step closer to understanding what it is you think you like about what you see, but for the most part it has little to do with what you would like to perceive it was when you stood before it and felt what it was you thought you were feeling without actually thinking about it. Duck to avoid the overhead obstruction while letting your unconscious self-talk blather on full speed into a metaphoric brick wall. Paint that in two-color half-tone.

Sweet! It was sweet! Not late. And we just weren’t able to see it at the time. All the while, sweet is what it was; having nothing to do with referencing centuries or hours of days or due dates or anything like that. It must have been the fingers on the alpha buttons misconstruing the similarities implied in sweet and late that led to the craziness that ensued. It is like the fine particles of any and every thing that make it through the fibers and collects underneath the rug that in so many ways seems as though it was put there to capture them and keep them off of the floor, but there is no accounting for next level of reality that lurks beneath the initial obvious intended one without some sense of irony that in some way proves logical in terms of the raw materials needed by comics who mine them.
Energy expended in avoidance, if nothing else. Maybe not. Not avoidance. More like nothing else. Think not, therefore not concluded. Dreck ventured, dreck gained. Stream flowed, plumbing drained.