Didn't post Monday. Told you I couldn't blog.
Told you.
Told you.
But you didn't believe me.
I blame the egg for this. There's an egg. In my fridge. Around the egg, a chariot race is run. An eternal chariot race is run around the egg in my fridge. No one wins the chariot race that runs eternally around the egg in my fridge. And yet they continue to race. They continue, even though no one wins the eternal chariot race that runs around the egg in my fridge.
What happens when the egg cracks open? Will the eternal chariot race then suddenly stop? Is the cracking of the egg in my fridge around which the eternal chariot race is run in fact the end of eternity? And whose eternity? Whose? Not mine, surely.
Surely.
But someones. The racers? Will eternity end for the racers? Will my eternity end, as well? Is the inevitable cracking of the egg in my fridge around which an eternal chariot race is run a metaphor for the end of my very own little eternity?
It is mine.
Egg. Unholy egg. Unholy cracking egg. Unholy split that ends the eternal chariot race. That changes my notion of eternity. That ruins eternity for all to see. See and know that eternity is a less definitive concept than we think it is.
Unholy egg. From an unholy chicken.
I dream about the egg cracking. I dream about what comes out. Out of the cracking egg. In my fridge.
The tiny racers do not notice, will not think about, cannot conceive of the cracking of the egg. They race and race, and the horses never tire, and the whips never lose there sting, and the wheels never fall to pieces with age—extreme age—and the track never seems to be worn into grooves.
The race goes on and the racers see no end to it.
This is because the light in the fridge is rarely on. Because I don't leave the door open long. Because my father would yell at me if I did. He's not paying to cool the whole house with the fridge. And he doesn't care for racing. Or eggs.
