Endings

E n d i n g s

                                                                                  By «im Uhr

She sat alone in the gazebo.

            The wind blew her hair. But there was no one there to see the rumpled mess it was becoming. She didn’t try to brush it, for she had no brush even if she wanted to. The wind blew hair into her eyes, causing tears. But there was no one there to wipe them.

She starred off into nothingness, for there was no one else to look at.

She was alone.

A cold breeze blew past her. The weather was changing. Summer was ending. Autumn was creeping in, like a thief in the night. One day it was summer, but sometime in the middle of the night, while no one was watching, the leaves started to turn, birds got ready for their long flights, and cool breezes sunk up on you. Now at night it was wise to carry a jacket, an extra layer of protection.

Autumn brought many things to an end; Ice cream, Baseball, Swimming, Walks in the park, Bike riding, and Love affairs…

She didn’t need to know reasons. Things ended. Autumn came. Winter would soon follow. It’s just they way things were.

She wiped a final teardrop from her eye and headed home alone. Before winter came. 

The end.

Alone Again                      'Nother sad song

                                       ALone

Is there a Reason To Write?

Reason To Write

Is my writing all in vain?

Well, it is true that writing makes my heart beat. But does anyone else really care? Probably not…

But does that stop me?

Should it?

…Yes – But will it?

If you see more writing following, you can assume that it didn’t. But let’s analyze whether or not it should stop me. Then I will decide if it will.

If I have one, or maybe even two, readers who have read at least one article before without gagging, then, surely it would be reason enough to go on. But at this point we are assuming that this isn’t so – and we are probably safe in making this assumption. Even if we aren’t totally safe in drawing this conclusion that I have no readers, let’s just do so to make it more fun.

So now that we (?) have established the fact that I have no readers we are one step closer to determining whether I should go on or give up right here.

So maybe it should be assumed that I should’ve already lost my will to go on. After all what is the sense in a writer writing if a reader isn’t reading what the writer has been writing in hopes to have readers read what he has written. Am I right in writing believing that the only reason a writer writes is to have readers read him? Maybe not in all cases. Because in certain circumstances the casual consensus is that curtain calls are considered contrary to the conventional caliber of cases where cheering can cheapen cherished classics.

I think the main reason I write is for therapy of the soul. Writing focuses my cosmic illusions of space and the vacuums of the mind into forms none telepathic, and through sensations in my temples and in ways to guide my fingers, thus enabling me to control said fingers to place these transmissions down on paper in the two dimensional world of common folk, enabling them to somewhat relate to the though processes of a much higher form.

It would also really be nice to have one or, getting really wild, two readers. I mean, so what if the whole world could understand the complex workings of an advanced mind if there is nobody there to read them. Although writing is a form of self-expression, what good is it if there is nobody there to see my expressions?

So strike down that last (and only) reason to write.

Is there another reason I write that I can dig up from the recesses of my mind? This should be easy to find because my mind is always on recess.

So as I brush back the cobwebs to search for other meanings to my methods, I remember the thing that started me writing in the first place. The local Dime Store was running a sale, and amidst a table of junk with wrappers torn, and boxes bruised and faded, I came across a pack of ten pens. Ten Papermates for Fifty cents. I reached into my pocket to find two quarters, and I knew, from that moment on, that something cosmic was happening in the fabric of time. The Universe would never be the same!

With ten pens sitting on my nightstand I eventually took to making scribbles on paper to waste some of the ink on hand. But my advanced mind soon grew bored of the simplistic subtleties of common swirls and masses of stickmen armies. Circles only went backwards or forwards, and upon completion it was hard to tell a forward one from a backward one, even though I spent much time alkalizing them. Stick figures can only have a smile, a frown, or a straight line across their faces. And their bodies are all skinny. I’ve never seen a fat stick man. Sure, use a magic marker and you may get one that’s well-built, but you still would be stretching things to call him fat. A stout stickman is rare. When you go past the point of stout stickmen you’re getting into abstract art, and I lose interest and patience.

So after a few years I grew bored with scribbles. But when I finally reached a point where I could not tolerate one more scribble nor coordinate one more stick man, I found that I still had one more pen on hand. Most of the ink from all the pens was actually still on hand, for I tend to get more ink on my hand than the paper. But eventually it washes off.

Could I let this last pen go to waste? Did I waste my hard earned money when I could have settled for nine pens? Did I waste someone else’s precious time and effort in creating this pen? Would the manufacturer, whose product was going to waste, seek personal revenge on me? Would that last, lonely pen throw it’s insides all over my drawer in frustration? Would I wake one morning dead, the police finding the pen thrust through my heart? Who would the main suspect be – the pen, the manufacturer, or my future readers?

I took that pen, fearing all of the above, and scratched meaningless words onto a paper in straight lines all the way across it and continued for the whole length of the page. I called myself a Writer, because I don’t want to be known as a wrong Uhr.

So there you have it. That is the reason for my writing. The facts are all in – now, should I quit or continue? Seeing that my pen is almost out of ink… I think that it’s time to quit.

Ultimately the decision comes down, not to a lack of thoughts and subjects, nor to a lack of readers… but a lack of ink.

Entropy wins out in the end.

Yes, this is my last article…

                                                                       Farwellingly Yours,

       èim  Uhr

P.S.   I’m going to take a trip down to that dime store,

          if it’s still around. I’m bringing fifty-three cents.

Last Song              No, Actually this is the last song

Wait a minute maybe...

 Quitter!!!

A blast from the past...

A FRIENDLY DRIVE

I was driving down the road the other day, when I flipped out. It wasn't a new song on the radio. It was the curb that caused it. Before I knew it I was doing summersaults.

My car landed right side up and I staggered out. I, literally, spit glass out of my mouth as I gazed disbelievingly at my car. People stopped and were asking me questions, but I just alternated nodding and shaking my head without listening to them.

My car ... me?

Not a bruise. Not a cut. The glass didn't even cut the inside of my mouth. Not one thing was wrong with me… No, I wasn't wearing my seat belt.

As my brain finally started excepting messages my eyes were sending it, I noticed my windshield lying a few feet from the car, shattered, but nearly whole. My newly bought side mirrors were, naturally, broken off. There was mud allover my car as luckily I had rolled on grass instead of pavement. The passenger side of the roof was smashed in a bit, my door was bent in, and the right rear fender was smashed.

Someone said I must have been listening to the radio to hit a rock and roll.

Somehow I got the idea of trying to start my car. Since no damage was done to the hood or anything under it, I got the car started without any trouble.

I ended up driving the car home, with no windshield in below freezing temperatures. I shook all the way home, partially from the cold and partially from shock.

One the way home I thought of something that Winston Churchill once said, one of my favorite quotes—

 "Men occasionally stumble over the truth, but most of them pick themselves up and hurry off as if nothing happened."

I made it home without getting pulled over, even though it's illegal to drive without a windshield.

I can still remember (in flashes) that sensation of turning upside down and rolling. Things flashed by so fast. I saw parts of my life in quick, unrelated glimpses. Then, in mid roll, I thought to myself, "This is a dream."

Microseconds later I realized it wasn't a dream, that my car was rolling over and I was in it, and that I would be late for work. I wondered why it rolled. Was I rolling up a hill? Through lanes of traffic? Was I dying? Had I ever lived? Was my car paid off? Did I have clean underwear?

A feeling soon to be forgot, but a time long remembered. If the feelings that one has during an uncontrollable moment in one's life could be totally recalled, I doubt if many mistakes would be repeated. But the only thing that is truly remembered are the after affects, and they never seem to be quite as bad.

Yes, how easily feelings are forgot.

Trying times can test us and show what we're made of. I'm not sure what I'm made of, but I know that I don't like tests.

It sounds unusual, but I think Cicero made a lot of sense when he said,

 "There is something pleasurable in calm remembrance of a past sorrow."

Maybe it's just the fact that the adversity has been survived, and it makes present adversities seem conquerable. Something Friedrich Nietzsche said helps shed light into Cicero's statement:

       "What does not destroy me makes me strong."

You are stronger from living through past sorrows. Also past troubles seen through memory's eye always are less sharp and out of focus then is the pain of present problems.

Remember the lesson of the day — Brakes, steering and even good friends can fail. To remain strong without becoming bitter is the trick. Friends don't care about your failures, and they care only to beat your successes. The best one can ask of a friend is to tell the truth when you need it, also to lie when you need it, and to listen nearly as often as they talk. Many times I find myself praying like Marshall de Villars.         — "God save me from my friends

                  I can protect myself from my enemies."

I expect distress from my enemies but when it comes by way of friends it is unbearable. I guess I just have to learn something that Agnes Macphail put well by saying,

“Do not rely completely on any other human being, however dear. We meet all life's greatest tests alone."

I guess when you have news that makes your life miserable the best thing a friend can do, from his point of view, is to exclude you from his life so you don't make him share in your misery.

"Heaven for climate, hell for company." — James M. Barrie.

Half my friends are in heaven, and the rest just have their heads in the clouds.

Dearly befriended,

èim  Uhr

P.S. It's funny the way

       one thinks of friends

                          in times of sorrow. I

                          can usually think of

                          them, but I can't talk

                          to them. 

Drive me away                                       RIP or RID(rest in drive)

                            We all crash alone