It’s a relatively easy task was the first thing that she said. Actually, it was the first thing that she wrote. She had been up all night. There was no real reason to be writing now. Many choices have already been decided for her. She writes anyway.
It was easy, she said, because it didn’t matter anymore.
It was easy because it was all inside of her.
It was easy, she thought, because she could get at it anytime she felt ambitious.
This she was sure of.
But what happens, unbeknownst to the willing, when you are so sure of such things is that you fail to continuously imagine the future as being something other than it is and because of this the willing had not only failed at imagining herself at a different junction in time, but she had indefinitely deferred the conscious voice which tries to actualize those junctions. The willing (un)fortunately moves on just the same, trying to get at the voice that sits inside.
She knew that once she could (re)create her voice the words would come out sounding just the way she remembered them, the way ‘I just wanna go holme’ sounded on the bus with _________ on the other end of the receiver. But what the willing did not know sitting inside the bus was that her location was a precise point in a frame that made up that particular moment, and the bus sitting on Route 4 was the frame around her, and each position she held was a frame inside another which was forever once removed from the last, and because her frame never had any preconceived notions of itself it could never schedule an alignment of this succession, an alignment where her apogee could clearly be viewed.
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