A time, just another time.

I’m going to listen to myself, right now. But I don’t think I can hear anything. Just whistling, just echoes, just the sound of this empty room, groaning and grinding and existing around me. That’s to be expected, I suppose. After all: There’s no one else here.

Just me.

I’ve been busy as of late; compound conundrums composed of certain cads who couldn’t command their compunction for catastrophe in any fashion that could be deemed “reasonably competent”. Needless to say, it became a little bit stressful. Needless to say, it brought the fellow who is listening to the ambience of this empty room to a place where thoughts and words and wisdom and stupidity couldn’t quite be accessed, as if Mimir’s Well had been covered by a lid of the heaviest iron, and jovial Bragi had decided to go on holiday. It wasn’t best of times. Nor the worst.

Just another time.

Which is where we are now, I suppose. Just another time, just one time in the place of the other, the other being the last. The previous. The last. Whatever. A year began, the same as any other; my dear sister’s birthday came upon us, and just a day later, a new man came into an office. People were happy, people were proud, people waved flags, people had things to say. Good things. Such things. Things are bad, but everyone takes a day to start singing for the prospect of the good. Things are good, while everyone else’s things go the way of the bad. True, Life, Love. Good, Bad, Weird. Way of the World. Right?

Just a new year.

Right you are. Right here, beside me, as is everyone else, even though they’re nowhere. But the times they are a changin’, as the day to day keeps up appearances, and most people are waiting for something new to happen, perhaps because of this cool new cat who is sitting in that chair made for men to be big, or perhaps because they know that as history repeats itself, and as years tumble forward one into t’other, that things are going to be made new, things are going to be different, things will tumble and burn and fall and crash and rise and gain and grow and smile and then fall down one more time. It’s what happens, it’s what will happen, it’s probably what’s happening. Because that’s what happens. And as surely as I’m sitting here, looking forward to the next episode of United States of How I Met 24 House Lights, I know that this is how civilization goes.

Just a time, like all the others.

I was busy, before. Busy doing very, very specific things, writing down so many numbers that were importantly separated by semicolons as opposed to colons, making sure that all fell into place, digits and fades and colors and chyrons and mattes, all exact, all to the frame. I did those things, made them exact; and then, and then, someone else screwed it up. Part of the business, the stressful part. The part belonging to those certain cads, falling into their aforementioned compunctions. The part that makes me so, so tired. Tired enough to step forward, I suppose. To try something just a little bit different, even though it puts me into quite a different position: The position where I might tumble. And burn. And fall. And rise. And gain. And grow. Just because I can.

Just because that’s what happens.

A slight beginning.

Well.

-------------------------------

To die is a privilege, granted to those who deserve respite.

It was I who said that. I remember it. I remember it clearly, because I remember everything clearly. Too clearly, some (including me) might say. Memory is often known to be a well-worn patchwork quilt, made of generational hands quietly sewing in tiny bits of history with love. With care. With anything, really. The incidental and the coincidental, all in that collection of individual memes, forming something that can be looked back upon with a sense of personal wonder. Not all of it can be seen. Not all of it can be regarded. But it’s all there. All of it. And when people remember, they often remember things of pure wonder. Not so, with those like me. Those who remember everything. Everything. Those who tend to wonder: Would the world, my life -- would it be better if I could forget?

I remember where I was, the moment that I spoke those words. But more importantly: I remember why. Because before I was sitting there, aside the best friend that I can manage in a place that I continually waste away my days, I was somewhere else. Somewhere cold.
Standing on a muddy hillock outside of Glasgow, staring at the corpse of a simple, stupid man. Watching his semi-long brown hair stand up, frozen in my eyes, although in the space of time it was probably whip-cracking him about the face, as if attempting to punish him for the foolishness that he had just partaken in. His face locked in a quiet mask that mingled an overall look of contentment with the slightest beginning of a grimace. His name was -- had been -- Daniel. And quite honestly, as stupid as I knew he was: he looked as if he had been a nice enough man.

Decent.

At least…he had been. Before only a few moments ago, before he found himself laying in a pile of half-frozen mud, his body formed into a position that made it seem as if he had been made of soft elastic. The blood on his head still moving, in all probability. Still fighting for its warmth against the conflicting desires of the gale. It flowed from a wound that would have been surprisingly small, had I not remembered an infinite multitude of wounds that had come before. As always, the man was dead. But he was not alone.

It was for her that I had come.

-------------------------------

There's more to it. More written down than these simple paragraphs, more spun than these initial ideas. There are places where this can -- where it is going to -- go. Places utilizing myths and fantasies, the roots of stories that we as a people have held close to us over the period of generations, ones that we used to explain and enlighten; ones that we used simply as an excuse to feel good. About something.

And like those stories, the ones manipulated by the vestiges of time -- I hope it may come primarily from a place of memory. If bits and pieces of the myth drop off and change, if only ever so slightly, well then...isn't that how they're supposed to go?

But even so, this moment isn't quite the time. Not yet.
Not yet.

Not yet.

A script and a statement.

I had hoped to finish this script today.

I thought it up this morning.

I planned to finish it this night.

But as they say, "A plan is a list of things that won't happen."

Ah well. I still have had time to create bits like this:

ELLE
Is that so?

She jots down some info on yet other one of her countless pieces of paper.

ELLE (CONT’D)
Maybe someday, Willis.
(beat)
If you go and get yourself fixed.
Like I said, I don’t use rubbers.

And BAM, the phone goes down.

Nathan blinks. Once. Twice.
Three times.

NATHAN
...the Fuck?

-----------------------------------------------------------



And this.




---------------------------------------------------------------------



MATTHEW
Have you ever been in love?

NATHAN
Couldn’t say.

MATTHEW
That’s a no. If you knew what I meant, you could definitely say, you couldn’t have enough to say.
Believe me.

He starts moving his feet, pacing in small motions

MATTHEW (CONT’D)
I’m not talking schoolbook, I don’t mean he’s cute-he’s cute,
or he’s cute-she’s cute, or whatever that might be. I’m talking about feeling nothing else
Can you imagine that? Having nothing but one person be your whole body and soul,
everything to you in one big-damn motion?
Can you?

Nathan says nothing. He merely palms a bullet and starts rolling it in his hand.

MATTHEW (CONT’D)
I can, Mr. Anders. I. CAN.
(beat)
Now. Could you tell me what it would be like if that person died?

Matthew stops pacing. He’s staring straight at Nathan, who still keeps rolling that bullet within his fingers, the motion gradually gaining speed.

NATHAN
I could imagine.

MATTHEW
Maybe you can, Mr. Anders. Maybe you can.
But if you can, if you know, if you’re that FUCKING PERCEPTIVE,
maybe you can tell me something else.
Maybe, maybe you can tell me what it feels like to not lose that feeling. Imagine if that person is still there, in your body, in your soul,
YOU COULD STILL FEEL THEM.
Even when they’re gone.
Even? Especially.

And with that, the floodgates open. No words, no grand sweeping wailing. He just maneuvers himself into the chair which he had previously shunned.

Matthew cries. Quietly. To himself.


------------------------------------------

And a good time was had by all.