a premonition of what is to come

a premonition of what is to come

fiction
edward w pritchard

That certain craziness that is passed to the oldest son through the Mother, a premonition of what is to come in the lives of individuals observed briefly from a distance is the writers curse.

Rather than join and enjoy everyday things such individuals stand back seeing too much, secret voyeuristic observations of the faults of character that keeps everyone a stranger, and no-one  a Saint.

Alone, always alone trying to subset infinite possibilities of chance and circumstance on the lives of others into a few paragraphs of turbid description. Casting a thousand predictions into twenty five mile drift nets to seine one or two related character flaws into the universal story.

There is no meaning. Beauty is a learned response to dripping syrupy colors of experience jailed deep in the Mind into stale categorical imperatives.

Leave the disinherited, the disconcerted, the lonely, the unhappy in their unique misery. Only the face matters but it does not mirror the soul. [1]

Forget the dreams of last night. They bore me this morning.With a clean slate have nothing to say, nothing to see and nothing to categorize.

[1] paragraph inspired by Luigi Barzini " the Italians"