Breeze Total

It’s a story and a casual one, this is not intended to teach children or arm the elderly, it’s mere existence is to encourage some type of reflection on the wonders of it all, if it had any aim at all, which is doubtful. Perhaps it’s a story simply meant to brighten your day.

I couldn’t just tell you to reflect on some wonders, or have a brighter day, because, seriously, what’s the fun in that?

“Reflect on the wonders of it all,” I say.

“Turn the lights on harder,” I tell you.

The End.

Terrible story. Next, please.

Stories warp space and time to deliver an experience. A story is more than what words are used to tell it, or what the story itself is about, a story is also how and what way it is told, and how and what way it makes you feel about it, as well.

A story, the imagery it evokes, the imagination it sparks, the sounds or words used to tell it are interpreted with our own feelings and meanings, guided by awareness and experience. Our opinions and attitudes are swept along and shaped by the events of the narration, whatever kind of story it might be, drifting along a lazy river of space raiders or magical unicorns or tax accountants that play bass really fucking badass and well, or whatever is in the story at the time.

Bass-playing tax accountants that ride magical unicorns and slay space raiders and they fall in love, someday, let’s say. Maybe a lot of them start to die in some terrible magic battle and there are only a few of them left after years of hardened riffs and spells and these survivors, what is left of them, discover some kind of crystal that grants them all wishes, and so on and so forth, because honestly, a story like that could probably never end, or end well.

Anyway… You, or I, or maybe someone we both don’t know that is reading this, also, can have our minds completely screwed with just by these simple little lines and squiggles being laid out like this all flat-like and wordy. 26 letters, or some combination of them, and we’re also rocking out on Neptune, or felling giants with mighty axes, or what have you.

This ain’t a song, or a painting. No fancy brushes or instruments are being used, you have the most primitive and the most powerful tool behind your eyes, so too must a story be able to captivate, as well.

I’m the storyteller, I guess. I suppose this is just a casual story, loosely making connections or expectations that wonders will or should be reflected on, probably expecting that you’ll get around to it in a couple of days or so… I’m not really a big hard ass when it comes to following up with people, it’s up to you if you’re going to take the time to wonder about anything at all. I don’t make those decisions for you. You are the master of your own destiny, or one day should be.

It would be somewhat ludicrous, however, to sit here (or stand or fly because how would you know) and tell this casual story about story-telling and yet refuse to accept any responsibility for what it has done.

Quite frankly, tax accountants that get drunk on heavy amounts of beer and get sweaty and play bass at clubs and also ride magical unicorns, sometimes, or are secretly wizards in other realities, and are dreaming of playing bass in other lives, would probably all eventually meet their end, death, demise or fate in various ways, aside from one which would remain who would be named John.

John is still alive. He plays poker with some work buddies on Thursdays and tries to forget the past, or whatever it was.

The End.