gael force

In the confined space of the biosphere made to protect us from the dying of our star, she recognized the supremacy of conscientious movement. At that moment, all the past iniquities of the sexes meant little, for weight was now subservient to mass; strength, an afterthought given way to litheness. Balance beams and parallel bars the new symbols of achievement and supremacy, with barbells relegated to door props.

When memories return like a flood following a metamorphosis of that scale, they cease to define who you are, but who you were as a character in a children's story, simplistic and one-dimensional. It is, in essence, a loss of memory; those images now belong to someone who no longer is, and they can guide you no more than any parable shared by anyone.

There is a sadness in the liberation of oneself from one's past, she says aloud, much as she does when she learns a new name for the first time. "Hello, Brandon. Can I get you a drink, Brandon. That is a lovely scarf. Brandon, may I ask where you found it?" But liberation is freedom, too, she says aloud. This is a happy occasion. My story could be anyone's. And I suppose it is. She whispers this last part.

To test out her new theory and gauge her newly discovered confidence, she unlocks the lockpad of her diary and squeezes the button. The small book springs open in front of her, jammed as it is with old letters and postcards and spore prints. She takes her hands away and watches it hover in front of her, opening like a callistephus.

I will read an early entry and it will bounce off like, no, she says, that's not the right image. It will break upon me like water on a, no, that's not it either. She breathes softly and tries to imagine what the new person she has become might say about facing her old thoughts unaffected.

I will read this passage with all the curiosity of an explorer and let its wonder open my eyes to a glimpse of the life of a young girl who I might somehow feel connected to. And she reads the passage without the judgment of someone ashamed of her own past, and finds it charming and funny and interesting. She likes this young girl, and completing the transformation says aloud, "Oh, I can relate to this. I might have thought the same when I was younger."

I suppose what I'm saying is that I'm really, really bored with the internet and it's time for me to move on to other things. I will be closing up shop here and there. Take care, everyone.

(I'll probably leave this and my twitter feed up long enough to save all my archives to my hard drive. If anyone knows a quick tool for backing up twitter, please share! The one's I've used so far are lame.)