Misprints

For the past week or so, I keep having this feeling that something is coming to an end(something new is going to begin) and that’s another page I’d love to tear. I have a long story, and like most of the stories in the world, never finished. There was an ending, many in fact – there always is – but the story went on past the ending – it always does. They go on by themselves, with or without us – they always do, including a man’s destiny. Destiny looks for and fills you up on those blank pages that needed to be bled so when you start leafing back, you begin to wonder if it really should be written this way or could there be other probabilities to what is already there on the page, could it be misinterpreted and debased from what you think of it as, or does the whole story simply seem unconvincing to us now, many things including a man’s destiny?

I don’t look for destiny, I am not obliged to and who says we are anyway. It has got nothing to do with me since it has its hands on me even before I was reborn after Kyl. In fact, I think it already had its hands on me when my dad dropped an anchor inside my mom. And what I usually do is to let everything else die before/after/with/without me. Eventually I stopped telling others about my story. Stories are labyrinths of experiences, otherwise fictional. Yes no? So why would it matter if I don’t feed you with my never-ending stories? I don’t like misprints.

We take turns to die. Death just falls into different hands all the time. Anything that happens after death is another chapter’s birth. When we killed what we were to become what we are now, what did we do with the bodies? We did what most plebs do; stow away under the floorboards and got used to the smell. Homo sapiens. We dial helplines. We stomach what fills our emptiness. We are scavengers of odds and ends. We send starships. We fall in love. Maybe we don’t exist at all; that everything is a misprint.

Home to gulls and dreams, homo sapiens.