It Was There You Lived — Off the Record

You got the ending you expected.
It was fine.
You died.

You worked for something a bit more than fine.
This led to a few complications.
You also died.

You authored an original story,
with new characters experiencing
once-in-a-lifetime events.
You even let it mean something for a while,
before letting it not for longer.
You still died.

Watercolor: two faint figures haloed in warm autumn light — orange, rust, and sepia bursts on a torn-paper ground, with the suggestion of newsprint at the edges.

The thing is—
and read closely, as you might blink and miss it—
Between the beginning and the end
of said story,
There was a single afternoon in October.
You know the one.
When someone you used to know,
maybe used to love,
laughed at something you didn’t mean to say.

And for just that moment,
it all stopped for you.
The plot ceased to move forward,
with no ending in sight.

All that remained were the two of you,
nestled into some whitespace on the page.
Taking all the time you needed.

Watercolor: two pale figures standing close in a bright horizontal threshold of light, framed by torn dark walls of peeled rust and shadow.

It was there you found a reason why.
It was there you lived.
Dying was just something that happened later.

Tags