A split down the hemispheres.

Well.

There are only so many things that a person can take pulling on the seams of their brains, splitting it apart into juicy segments that can leave you a dullard if you aren’t careful. Careful enough, anyhow. It would seem that recently, I wasn’t careful enough.
Not nearly.

It was kind of a fucked up evening.
An ax sticking out the top of my head, delicately cleaving the hemispheres of my foolish brain into separate entities. They’re already separate, some might say. And they were. Only…moreso. Twin windows gleaming at me. One for each eye.

On my left, the person that I’d known to have a Whisky voice & Coffee mind was telling me that she’d found something that I’d never have expected her to find. Not her. Not the one who I’d met in a greasy pit built of bad acoustics, the one who would make her face change into something different when she was there, up there -- the face with soft features, lightly tinged with a rim of red light. Looking away.

It would seem that when she was looking, something caught her eye.
Something that I do not trust. That I do not believe. That I do not love.
It’s hard being happy when you’re presented with such things.

Even though your friend is. Chatting cheerfully about how us borrowers and lenders be, while taking moment in between the moments to send me a picture of Simone de Beauvoir’s naked backside, a symphony of pale skin and surprisingly well-toned thighs.
She had thought that I’d appreciate the bum of an existentialist.
And as should be obvious, she was right.

Well.

On my right, the person that I’d known…for quite a few things, actually. Snappy retorts. Frozen walks. Refreshing laughter. Words in the night, words in the morning.
She was telling me -- she had told me -- something that left me different than I had been. That side of me, that segmented portion of whoever I be, that…some guy. The moment jarred him something fierce. Cold and hard, fiercely motivating, with a sense of time that stretched out as far as the half-a-mind could comprehend. It was pure logic, that’s all.
It’s easy being damaged when you’re presented with such things.

Even though it made sense. It still makes sense.
And as far as I know, it’s still going to be alright. Me, the whole me. The me that re-formed myself after being defenestrated into a pool of primordial jelly. (Yes, I am indeed aware of what that word means. Can you imagine how that would work? It'd be something to behold, that's for damn sure.)

Here.
I.
Am.

Standing here, doing nothing. Nothing at all.
What could be done?

Intelligent people have seen their roads ahead. They’ve made decisions, they’ve tried to take it one foot in front of the other, so that someday, someday, someday they’ll arrive at a place where they can look around and solemnly dole out a single, firm, nod.
That’s what matters here.

Yes, not even the fact that it was the most logical course of action; not even the fact that Jean-Paul Sartre himself notoriously declared an interest in theism when he stood on the brink of oblivion. No.
Just these people.
Just their choices.

What else?
Nothing else.