Contributor: Gary Mansfield

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Once we came. . .
to see the pilgrimage. Tall, our ideas were not. The imagination, however, soared, and we became one; as only one can become: Mutual. And we traveled, thinking wildly of the past; laughing and grinning at things we did. And that is how—in the fog—we became friends. . .

And so
We saw ourselves. ..
as pioneers, seeking formulas and coming away with inventions. We explored, employed, and yelled at those who did neither. We were such a bother—but—so you don’t get the wrong impression, not everything was about us. Oh, no. There were others; plenty of others who forged their own concepts, precepts, opinions and then became a bother of themselves. . .

Therefore
Tall tales were told. . .
stories that were real or as real as they will ever be. And they penetrated our souls, our hearts, our pure idealism, entrenched in memory as they were to become; become complete and whole. These were the stories of us and they were glorious, because they were ours. Oh, yes, they were real; so, so real, despite what some might (did) say about them. (Those who did complain were
transient---we pretended to listen to them, without much interest). So, yes, as stated, they were real, Alright . . . as much a real thing (story) can be when imagination attacks the enemy and the memory. . .

Wherefore
We felt ourselves. . .
slipping beyond, beneath, almost, like idiots, into a quiet-lonely solitude. But it was not sad, this quiet-lonely solitude (a story in itself). On the contrary. It was needed and therefore, we were needed and they became needed and there were smiles all around. These feelings of mental attributes, became, at times, tiresome; wearisome; and perhaps (oh, push-posh, perhaps) a bit like Russian literature, full of love and violence all at the same time. So, we picked a violet and tried—for once—not to make poetic it’s being. . .Seeing that it had been done before and then done again. And there too, as you shall see one day, became a story (in itself). . . Our stories. . .

And so
Once we came, again. . .
the end, dramatic, conclusive, permanent. Once the past had been catalogued, and the story (stories) told. . .then it could stand no more on independent charm (legs) and was permitted (quietly) to unfold and float away. Unless, we grasped its content; we took hold of its original state; the state of permanence. Then it stayed. Sad, you say, that such a thing—as a story (stories) would stay and not be shared; sad, you might think; ambiguously-profound you might declare. And hell, who knows, you might be right. For in “the end” it’s your story that matters most. . .

And so
I met the Status Quo
Neither friend nor foe, neither lo and behold, neither someone I wanted to know.


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My Name is Gary Mansfield, I live in Apple Valley, CA...married, retired, and writing everyday, poetry, fiction, and essays.