Folded Thought of the Day:

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Memoirs of a Forgotten Man 
... A prologue


It is night.

The borders of the city have given way to certain understandings.  
A flow in the system.. of give and take.. of hazy perception.  
Locked down gates -- left over from a former regime -- are now 
lifted.. torn down.. rusted over.  Unattended.  The comings and 
goings no longer noted, at least not by any authority figure. 
No, those shadowy ledgers are kept in different hands now.  
With less official, if not less dark, agendas.

Concentrating the daily effort on the unforeseen.  The elements 
of natural progression.  Peeling away degrees of separation.  
Along the paths that lead to this city's center.  Through ruins 
and monuments.  Hi-rising methodical testimonies of fundamental 
heroism -- held close within our sensibilities.. within our 
hearts.. marking time.  Laying the groundwork for future 
generations.  All hushed in the rhythm, the stop-beat that 
crosses perception, that sets the tone for possibility, that 
leaves space for now.

Feeling your way along.  Deeper into the unknown.  Losing 
track of the path you have created.. the way out.  Lines of 
communication drawing upon human intentions.  Making evident 
the random connection.  Stilled in the sense that you'd 
better keep moving -- there will be time for these arrangements, 
once the scores have been settled and the terms have been 
agreed upon. 

Thunder in the distance.. explosions.. the hour of subtle 
reminders.  The storm has swept through, leaving its mark 
on the debris of containment... leaving town in a hurry -- to 
gather strength and assess the damage.  And the calm is 
gaining momentum.  Taking its time.  Letting all the little 
things settle in their places.  Undisturbed, once rested.  
And we're seeing the beginnings of a pattern beginning to 
develop.. among the ruined tapestries.. tattered remnants 
of some golden age -- waiting for the moment of resurrection 
that has long passed.  

Nothing left these days but bitter survival  The humiliation 
of time passing, among these archival anomalies.  One is left 
to wonder, feeling warmth in their lasting.  All the dried 
stains of an incalculable set of mishaps.  The eyes and feet 
are so tired, waiting for the rest that somebody promised 
back when.  The olden days of tripping, of falling, getting 
up... and doing battle all over again.  Who knows how many 
times the level has fallen.. what has drifted away?.. been 
forgotten?  The regeneration of ages timed out.  Taking your 
place among the surly surveyors.

A familiar terrain.  Weathered buildings standing in defiance 
of years and neglect.  Faceless storefronts with benign signs 
of a life within.. dormant.. holding secrets.  Stapled 
broadsides claiming victory, notices of a gathering, cryptic 
references to a time and a place.  Voices coming from inside, 
from below, carried on this night's wind -- cold and comforting, 
greeting your arrival.

But you are already past.  This is not your place.  Moving 
along at a deliberate pace, with a freshly torn treaty folded 
and tucked away, a future reference.

Shrug it off.. keep moving.  Deeper into the city.. into the 
night.  Past foreign markings, tell-tale signs.  Through 
narrowing streets, tripping on exposed cobblestone, from a 
time long past.  Gas lamps casting their selective illumination.  
Shadowing your progress.  Where are you?  Where are you headed?  

Your gait relaxes.. it is clear.  You are close.  You can feel 
yourself stop.  Taking stock of your awareness.. a feeling 
undeniable.  You are here.

It is night. 

The darkness has settled in and taken hold.  There is much 
to be revealed.


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