Arme de choix

There was this altercation. A woman from a faraway land tells a man halfway across the world that he was insufficient, incapable, and unalarmingly passée. He disagreed; he thought he was worth more than what he was described. But there is a truth indiscernible from the comment by the woman; there was weight to it. It could have been palpable. He could simply be misunderstood. But by the time he held his tongue, his fingers were already wriggling about and doing the work outside of his own volition. He acted by impulse, not by desire, but by a knee-jerk reaction. One that he himself would not approve, but he nevertheless allowed. Expressions are merely authenticated by the mind. Nothing escapes it unless authorised, and this was no exception. The words he slipped on to her rattled her to the core that she swept him off immediately from her life from then on out. He could not be bothered, why would he? The man felt he had done nothing wrong, that he was simply disagreeing. Later on, they spoke to each other again, but both of them felt it deep inside of them individually that they should not have. Nothing of value comes later.

Words and words and words are wind. Time flies and nothing mattered. Lalia is a pointless exercise. If only in the end it could mean something worth discerning. The faint echoes of heartache dribble across the pained room as an exercise of futility. As soon as I entered, Gerald was there to Gerald, the all too common lalia of the pointless. His words reverberate into the nothingness of the wind, as do most things. He bid his hello and that was it basically. The world continues its spin, along with the others tied down to it.