After the Storm

by Gregory J. M. Kasunich

I suppose it all comes down to this, but we already knew that?

There isn’t much we can say, words would be… useless? Like weeds we grow these arguments, using vowels and consonants and whatever to fill in the dirty empty holes of conversation only to have them  plucked and dismissed. The whole process is repetitive and dirty. This thing that we do, this talk we make at each other. All the words we cultivate to fill up the days and minuets and seconds we don’t want to experience. Maybe if we keep pushing sounds out of our mouths we might forget where we are, who were are, or… what was I saying?

But here we are, foreseen and inevitable yet unavoidable all the same. Maybe that’s the big joke, maybe that’s fate: knowing the stupid things you are going to do, but doing them anyway simply to know what part of you will remain after the fire, the flood and the famine. Will you stil exist, will you still be you?

Go ahead, fill me up with clichés, I’ll need them later when the advice on the bourbon label stops making sense and the phone calls stop. These things they tell you, this religion of thought, they were right all along. Funny, you always knew how smart you were, until this, this,this…


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