The electric bite of distraction lately burns on the fringes of my brain. In an act of cyclical despiration I’ve been experimenting with the quantum states of parallel realities, carelessly letting slip the delicate boundaries that usual confine one to a single narrative and instead flouting the pale interconnectedness of things to my own playful curiosity.
I have discovered that it doesn’t take long to find oneself lost in one’s own life, inconsistencies of accounting blurring what should be a perfect understanding of past, present and future into a smudge of alternate options explored through mangled, ham-fisted hacking against the flow of a finely-tuned slipstream.
Simple alternatives compound rapidly, bending perceptions against measurables, memory against reality.
In all, it becomes little more than a metaphor, a symbol of uncontrolled anxieties flexing through a warped lens of half-baked catastrophic misunderstandings. At worst, therein lies an irreconcilable urge to retroactively untangle fact from faux, and find a path to where I think I used to be.