Monday, August 26, 2002

Only Room For One

Pretend you are a man who loved a woman; but that ended one day, and one day much later, the end could no longer be denied - drawn, sickened and immutable.

Pretend you are a man made of blocks and steel pieces, built precisely - each joint and figure sliding cleanly past the next: no room, no spaces, only singular facts.

Pretend you are a man who each day obliterates another pillar of his purpose, forging a future that stands on no past - yet footing uncertain.

The past fails him, like the limbs of a ravaged beast, run too far. The past washes over him, glimpsed around street corners and in puddles and in books. The past calls out and, true to history, twists like an adder - a mirror too bent.

Pretend you are a man. A man who has always been sure, who crushes doubt (throat first) before it can cry out. A man who built thought police to hobble the past. A man who fights for a future he has never known for no reason he can name.

Drive is like the tide; it can't be stopped.

- Mike Wood

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