erasure / rasura

The time was right. As if there was such thing as the right time. Or even if there was such thing as time. And why did it have to be right?

Any direction would be suitable for that wandering body, carrying a wandering soul; as long as it would move, even if being still. There was no question about departures or arrivals, everything was one at once. A continuum of losses and gains, a bag full of nothing wrapped in a cloud emptied from everything. And yet, that small detail was calling for attention, leaving no other choice than to reach for it.

Perhaps it was time to realize that the time was gone, and that thought, time was no longer part of the equation. All that there was left was that feeling of search for the next detail, always forgetting that other details have preceded.

Then again, senses no longer mattered, for there were no reasonable causes to use them; only a virtual need to remain the same, experiencing familiar situations with unfamiliar faces. But that was in vain.

The last light goes out (one more detail) leaving a dark blue setting for dreams to be painted, written, carved in it, shallow dreams of what it was and what it might be. What a coincidence that at this point that particular event takes place. And the moment after, something else happens, and there is no specific reason for the sequence, but it results in a perfect timing.

Time had not been forgotten, after all.