A Record of Things that Never Happened

Can memories be of things that never happened? Of people that never were? Maybe it's the thinking-of that makes the possibility-to. And in recalling the thinking-of of the never-weres, the passing-of of the chances-for, memories fuse with fancies, tied up in an idealized past that never came to pass, a present built on stone and clouds, mortar and rainbows. Elegiac whispers from fictional characters accroach themselves to the psyche, conscript the soul, exhaust the possibilities-to.

To? To escape? To a where? To a reality? A surreality, an ideality, a hyperreality?

This dispositional inversion layer is an ambuscade. A landmine. A booby trap. This is what taught you to hate surprises. God (of Biscuits) knows what makes you remember the joy of the unknown, the process of the yet-unfleshed, but you remember, you remember the joy of the thrill, and the thrill of the unplanned-for. Serendipity-doo reactivates in the flash rainstorm.

Does it matter where it all comes from? Fictional isn't fictive. Actual is rarely factual.

Once upon a then. Twice upon a now. Thrice upon a never.