Trash

The ease with which the creative genius of the mind fabricates a story is nothing short of remarkable. That, in of itself, is a fascinating subject. Even more riveting is the paucity of originality in such stories. All chapters are magically shoved into the space of the mind in a specific configuration over a period of a year or less or more. The time may or may not play a leading role in the theatrics. Once the room has been filled, the mind jumps for joy having found an occupation. The occupation being arranging and rearranging these chapters into various patterns and formations, making way for story one, then two, then two hundred. It is rather pathetic to witness the lack of innovation in this process. Even sadder to observe the inability to see reality which happens to be blocked by the incessant preoccupation of recycling the chapters. While entertaining, the playing of the old, scratched up record interferes with experiencing the lack of story that may be sitting directly in front. And the question continues to poke in all the painful places, wanting to know why the past continues to dictate today and the future.