Channeling Heraclitus

Max Payne

The past is a gaping hole. You try to run from it, but the more you run, the deeper, more terrible it grows behind you, its edges yawning at your heels. Your only chance is to turn around and face it. But it’s like looking down into the grave of your love, or kissing the mouth of a gun, a bullet trembling in its dark nest, ready to blow your head off.

There are no choices. Nothing but a straight line. The illusion comes afterwards, when you ask ‘Why me?’ and ‘What if?’. When you look back and see the branches, like a pruned bonsai tree, or forked lightning. If you had done something differently, it wouldn’t be you. It would be someone else looking back, asking a different set of questions.

Your past has a way of sneaking up on you. You’ll hear broken echoes of it everywhere, like a bad replay. You’ll get mad at everyone for reminding you about it, even if it’s all in your head.

Saetia

I am the horizon.
I have dreamed of tracing rings around this world.
My arms are stretched to forever.
My fingers shake with the fear of control.
The fear I know you all know so well.
We all lay claim to our destinies.
Yet we all rise and fall with the current.