We buried a horse. It was an important horse. Don’t look for it.
Why this obsession with phrases that make no sense? Words, ideas, strung together by no common thread. Apart they are nothing, and yet once together, something. Something more than the sum of their parts, something more than their meaning, which is inferred. We buried a horse. Who buried a horse? I don’t understand. What horse? Why a horse? Can’t sleep.
Things in my head, signals, wires are crossed, information is lost, the message arrives incomplete. Meaning is inferred. The horse is a metaphor. Importance is a metaphor. A person, a place, a memory. Don’t remember, must forget. Don’t look for it. Whatever you do, don’t look for it.
Can’t sleep. It’s too hot. Or maybe it’s too cold.
It means sleep. Bury the day. An important day, now past, don’t get too attached to the past. But now is always past. Everything we experience now is becoming the past. Bury the past. It was an important past. Uncover it, lessons learned, stories told, again and again across time, nothing changes yet everything has changed. Damaged memories, fragile to the touch.
We buried love, the ability to love. Love ties us to the past. Or maybe the present, it frees us from the past. Maybe it builds a future. Future is unseen, is new, fantastic, mundane, euphoric, horrific, all at once a thousand years away and then it is now and then it is past. Gone. Buried, like the horse. Important, like the horse.
Importance is inferred. Are we to assume the mundane? Then why mention it at all? The horse is important, that is why it is mentioned. Or is it? Mundane is from the Earth, yet mundane is inferior. All things are mundane.
If time flowed backwards, I’ve already forgotten my death. Hit by a car, never saw it coming. Can’t remember what I don’t remember. Time is the horse. It slips through our fingers. All things are time. Life, days, events, only the now exists, yet we feel the past by what it affects. One line, one direction, many speeds. Perception. It is fast, it is slow, six hundred seconds in only ten minutes. Time is relative, important. Buried. Forgotten. Like my death, it happened backwards from the impact, as my memories became fewer.
Objects are the horse. Importance is relative. The ring is a symbol, nothing more, an instrument, a vessel. The object carries meaning in use. The tree is not a seat, till we sit in its branches. Bury the meaning, forget the use, the object simply is. A vessel for a purpose as yet undiscovered. As with life, a purpose gathered as we travel, or not. No purpose, yet we still travel. Meaning is relative, meaning is time. Time gathers meaning. Or erodes it. Mountains crumble to dust.
Don’t look, just do. Just feel. Something, anything. Why this? What horror awaits those who uncover the horse? Uncover the past? Uncover meaning? The mundane is lost, or maybe remains, maybe it grows stronger than ever. Lost in thought, press buttons, express feelings. Why? What important horse was buried? Why buried, not cremated? Burial can be undone, cremation destroys. The metaphor is apt. We burned the horse. Cannot find the ashes for all the grains of dust. The horse was dust, then a horse, now dust. Returning to dust. Returning to death.
Burial returns to dust, slower though, stalling for time, for last-minute absolution? Miss the train by seven minutes. Count the mistakes, the toll is paid forever, not by you. Penny by penny, stone by stone. Can’t sleep. Head aches.