Echoes

And then it hit us - (like morning hits the shadows of leaves hanging over sidewalks)
The world 's always just dealing us another hand of
Echoes. 


Say the world is made up of echoes - .
Echoes that are laughter, echoes that are gooseflesh, echoes that are
streets, strumchords, verses, vines, carwipes, curtains,places,
people. Especially people.
Like the stars that are their own memories 
suspended 

in a fuddletime space, say
we too, are 

an everdrfting, everarriving, almostcolliding 
bunch of echoes - .
Would that make us unpresent? Yes.
Would that make us unreal? Yes and 

No.
Think of all the times Mumma had a shine in her eyes
telling you how you'd laugh when she peeled
oranges, bottomway up, for you. You'd draw a blank, give her
a watery smile to escape the moment of obvious 

disconnect.
Please, I was a kid! Why does she still remember that?
She doesn't remember it, 
she lives it.
The toothless boy she could get to grin
by peeling an orange bottomway up,
is her personal echo.
It no longer has anything to do with you. Think of it like
an alternate version of you, one you wouldn't speak to
at parties -
anymore. But
he's as much you as you are
yourself. (Some days may be even a teeny
bit more.)
So don't grudge Ma. She's not confused.
Nor is the girl from the days when you'd swear
that Cha-Kaku's biscuits kick Britannia's ass. 

The rains would hardly make you stop at

a shady blue cha-bench anymore.
But don't mock her. Not even when she stops
talking to you, apparently without

a reason. If you look carefully
among them slipping

echoes, you'd find that
she's only still hopelessly 

in conversation 

with Cha-kaku's sudden smile-maker. 

And that's all right. (As are you. :) )

Oh and in case you ever come to wonder, yes,

she too, is an echo. Of you.

of herself. Twenty other people’s.

Twenty other place’s..

For that's what your world is made up of.

Echoes.

Echoes that are laughter, echoes that are goose flesh, echoes that are
streets, strumchords, verses, vines, carwipes, curtains, places,
people. 

Especially people.

And then it hit us - (like morning hits the shadows of leaves hanging over sidewalks)
The world 's always just dealing us another hand of
Echoes.