Waveform collapse

Strange memories claw their way between the old cerebral folds this evening. Snow, fine like buckshot cuts the air in orchestrated bursts and somehow, maybe because of watching "Fear and loathing in Las Vegas" this afternoon with a couple of mates, maybe, because of something entirely different that's been building up for quite some time now, I'm pulled back to the time before the waveform collapse. Well, technically, that's impossible, as it's happening constantly, every millisecond myriads of coulds an cans get the quantum door shut in their faces. So it's also impossible to pinpoint with any degree of certainty the exact moment when the gears shifted. If I had to pick, I'd take that summer afternoon at the playground when I saw the waxing Moon, already past first quarter, rising up in the southeastern sky. I was six, maybe seven, but with a cold kind of certainty the knowledge that the way the Moon looks at this exact moment is absolutely singular, fleeting, never-to-come-again, was seared against my brain. I tried to etch every detail, every crater into my mind until tears started to run from my eyes from not blinking. All gone now. Except maybe the general vibe of the situation. Of course I lost sight of that very fact until much, much later. 

I always reveled in possibility. The fact that something was conceivable, remotely possible in any sense of the word, made it as real to me as the ground and the sky. That's probably why I almost never finish anything. The knowledge, that in the infinitude of quantum universes (although I never have perceived it consciously as such) it exists, complete, sublime and pristine, is fact enough. That's also probably why I get so easily frustrated with working on something, art, especially. It's like seeing the finished product through a glass door, with one foot stuck in the doorstep, but being forced to painstakingly recreate it on your end, when to just take that one step would be enough.

Not sure why both of these things came back now. Maybe, some finely honed string of my soul senses the jabbering of the hinges, starting to move. For now, I'll just finish my beer, grab two-three hours of shuteye and go a rollin' through the snow onto my night-shift like a good little sprocket, with the knowledge that either something is gonna give very soon, or I'm going to start shoving some sabots between the cog-teeth.