chance meander
I used to be scared by eloquence and at war with meaning. Thoughts would scribble themselves in numbers and letters, on charts and through elegantly dramatic assumed processes, but never would writing wish to add to these lone descriptions.
Now it is the reverse - pools of meaning and freely dispensable words sit next to each other awaiting use and dexterity, and the hand of a careful compiler. However at many points, doubt and confusion creep in. Things were not as they were. It was as unexplainable then as it is now, and is as unexplainable as it continues to be. We cannot use any sort of language to completely describe everything.
There are no ways to begin or end whatever it means; it is merely happened upon after a chance afternoon playing cards with one’s mind and still knowing that after an amount of time passes, one and one can be interpreted as either two, or eleven. Neither answer more wrong or right than the other, neither more valid, in fact both adding up to a larger amount of possibility than could ever be seen. There are an infinite amount of fractions and decimals between 0 and 1, if you think about them all…
I hit a key at random and it was your favourite letter. Pitch a ball in a game of roulette and you’ll get my favourite number. These things happen, as much as there are twenty-six letters and you’ll like most of them, and there are ten digits (make that binary for nuclear physics in two - it really matters…) which make all the numbers, including all of those which i like. Numbers, fractions, letters, words. They all perform the same function, just to different people.
This cannot therefore be chance. There’s a certainty in this sort of chance, that building blocks and bricks exist. True chance is going out on a limb in unchartered waters standing on one finger walking under a ladder while a black cat crosses your path and asks you if all punks are as lucky as you.
Chance is not one word. Chance is not one action or one repercussion. But a bundle of themes, words, actions or repercussions compiled with lackadasical guesswork and strings akin to a nineteen-fifties switchboard making contact by telephony possible…where there are simply no answers and not even a question within which to group, just a bundle of scrappy wires, lines and confused messes jostled about.
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