Time to Live

You said it’s impractical to do. Who would want to intentionally pack an entire novel into a page? Who would satisfy anyone with that kind of reductionism? What of the rippling intricacies exuding from the characters prattling and posturing at the other creatures dotting the underwaters of the narrative? This particular one, about a cowboy of the times, who leers back at the antagonistic school that had to be overcome in order to achieve peace of mind—the acceptance of the necessity to experience conflict for the end-goal of nirvana and resolution. There is gradual unfurling of the petals as the plot of the cowboy blooms and then a steady shriveling up as it recedes into a lifeless, lightless slump, and the cowboy drifts off into the shadows of oblivion, tranquilly, the act itself a shadow.

Is it realistic that the cowboy would reflect on the life lived as a necessary sequence? What of the years that were wasted grappling with a love interest, introduced early on, as circumstances funneled the two into an uneasy partnership that seemed bursting with sexual tension and unspoken desire for a convenient coupledom? Would those years seem wasted with the cognizance of the mortal wound that awaited the love interest, just as their romance seemed on the verge of achieving physical occurrence? I picture the cowboy not understanding any of it. Thus tumble forth the minerals known as events, a series of stones that roll on top of each other down the slope of space and time. Thus walks forth the cowboy, eyes open to the waters on all sides, hands curled inward and grasping as liquid imagery coyly slips in and out, the dance of fortune turning to misfortune and then turning back again. Waste indeed, one might think.

But what of it? There is no real understanding of what is currently happening if it didn’t happen before. For your sake, there is only one particular cowboy at a time, no what or why. But perhaps for practicality’s sake, there are infinite cowboys rolling down slopes, waiting together in the sea.