Riverbank

There is no alternative; this has to go on, day after day; a stream of words that flows, past this point where you stand and watch, like a river flowing on down to the sea of memory. One day these particular words will reach that sea and be lost in the past, become more words amongst so many other words that have flowed past this point and then become lost.

Mostly, you like to sit on the bank and watch the words go by, if not here, then somewhere nearby. It is nice here, though, the words flow by at a gentler pace than at other places on this river. Here they do not rage and storm, run through rapids, or flood the plains. Here it is just a gentle babbling brook that only occasionally rises to a rage. Often it washes something down, something incongruous that seems to have broken off some lose bit of sanity, turning it and twisting it as the water of words eddies and flows so that it becomes absurd, out of place, but perhaps it is those moments that you come here for. You realise though, that they happen less and less often these days as though the stream itself is tired of trying to erode away the foolishness of the world it runs though and that it too is as tired as you are.

Now all it seems to want to do is flow by, leaving you with little to remember or concern yourself with, but – seemingly, more than content – for you to sit there on the bank and watch it quietly pass.