The difficulty of spontaneous sobriety
I felt a flash of generative heat move across my face. We were leaning against each other trying to remember where we came from. The tempest roar of possibility slavering fang and breath, inches from our faces. It was so hard to think.
We focused. Hope wouldn’t break our concentration. We were the iris piercing through depth of field. The tunnel through to reality we remembered reading about. Where the brilliant light washes out the shades and lines we create to make it all matter. The data store. The purest. The experience itself, at last, no mere memory.
You succeeded. I failed. I begged to be still and certain. A photograph of my self to reference and separate from everything outside. To be the illuminated pixel or silver halide. To be kept in marigold fields or charcoal night. Vital. A single role at a single point in time. The scope of existence narrowed to perfection. No before or after. Immutable. I could not remember.