If one day, let’s say a hundred or so
years from now, someone discovers
this writing of mine, say in a binder
or a drawer, a cluttered closet or some
other library of antiquity, this unbound,
misplaced, random piece of my thoughts,
one of thousands I have committed to
paper for no other particular reason
than to speak my mind on a day where
nothing of historic proportions was
happening, and I had nothing of
particular consequence to say.
What if, let’s say, it was intended by
me to reach out into future generations
as a message in a bottle sent aimlessly
adrift, floating in the timeless sea of
infinity meant to let someone know that
I am stranded on this island, a desert
wasteland all alone. And likely by
the time you find this, I will have
long since dissolved into the nothing-
ness beach of unrecorded history?
And I have been reduced to and
shall remain one useless grain of
sand among the countless trillions,
no one of consequence, not even
the feckless TV, movie or gaming
industries would have an interest
in me and my story.
So, dear reader, the least I can do is
to dedicate this final offering of mine
to you.
I remain truly yours—The man who
under different circumstances, may
have been, but never was.
Anonymously,
Unceremonious Me
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