Getting here.

It’s hard, isn’t it? Trying to fit everything together, laying out your unfinished jigsaw, your life’s works, thinking:

“How did I get here?”

You try to put back the pieces, but some won’t fit. Take a hammer to them. The fragments still don’t quite match up, and wait! The colours are all wrong there.

Stop. Take stock. Hunt for clues.

Photos are flat, steam-rolled with the life squashed out of them. They never show you what you want to know, anyway. Can you even trust your memories?

They’re alive, you know.

They wander around inside your skull. They grow and they die. They eat each other, sometimes, which is just confusing if you let it go on for too long.

You can go on for too long if you don’t catch yourself.

The past twists, knots behind you.
It happened, sure. But what is ‘it’?

The present is but a single knot in your tapestry.
Not much, I know.

Ahead? In the future lies:
_____     ___ _____  ____ _______ _  ___ _    _    _          _

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The Post Office:

Disclaimer:

'Quintconsequential' is a word of my own invention, despite the definition in the style of the Oxford English Dictionary featured on the site. By all means, use it, whisper it, shout it from the rooftops. But please, remember that you heard it here first!