My nose still wearing the chill from outside. All there is to write is me. Things I see and feel. My testimony of a cold December afternoon. My version of how it happened. It’s said that we cannot trust even ourselves. Our memories scathed and warped by tiny internal mechanisms. Hormones, neurotransmitters, blood flowing to the left or the right. My soul through a scientific filter. A nerve ending fires, an itch that bends my will and its right hand to scratch. An action bypasses the consciousness. Scratch and itch. Voluntary and less so. What will is free? Has there ever been an action that wasn’t encoded with reaction in its DNA? Is all of existence simply a series of gears growing more intricate with every rotation? The greatest questions are the ones that can’t be answered. These are the final questions. Extra credit. The bonus round for a job well done. Lines rehearsed and recited. Action as reaction.
The answer that is god, a cop out. Salvation from all the great questions, yesterday today and tomorrow. Rest easy children, we have an answer. The ultimate answer. One of infinite shapes and interpretations.
A gaseous rorschach. Stealing credit for all the good that exists in the world. Like a thief in the night.