Go then, you had to. Everybody must. Everything must. All must become the past of itself, is that right or not right? All, other than Time which retains a future beyond all futures. When everything and all things are past, Time will have a future, it still will. A ticking, tick-tock-tick-tock thing that will never cease. And it can be safely said it will never cease because all those counting the tick-tock tick-tock will have ceased and become the past but Time will still be there. Ticking. That’s what. Think about it.

We are at uncertain junctures. Junctures we do not know the truth of. We are on platforms. And platforms run this way and that way and not all platforms run. Some run, some are on a break from running. And we do not know at the best of times which one we are on — the one going up or the one going down. Although in truth they are both going the same way, what leaves the platform ends up there, you know what I mean, although the time it takes and the directions it adopts most often differ.

People don’t understand platforms; platforms are not where journeys begin and journeys end, platforms are journeys. There are journeys that never end. We merely assume they have and we mourn the end of journeys. But how do we even know? How conceited to assume what we have seen off, or can see no longer, is at an end, full stop, finito.

How are we to know? Who are we to know? But let’s put that another way — we know things, of course we do, like we know the elements, earth, water, wind, fire, ether, etcetera, etcetera, but do we know all the things there are out there to know? No. A big no. The firmest proof of that is that we have constantly moved towards knowing more things than we previously knew, which means we do not know all things there are to know. There’s more. When we chance upon something more or new, we will pin it to our cap. But listen to this: every time you put a new feather you reveal the feather that was hitherto not in your cap. Get me? It may matter not if you do not. Not everybody’s meant to get. Some don’t and yet they are.

Earth, water, wind, fire, ether. Who knows there isn’t more? Another dimension? Like a library of all memory there ever was in a catalogue we haven’t discovered how to access? Or every sound ever made or uttered, in ever-lengthening waves, laying about coiled, awaiting discovery? Or the place lives travel to when lives have ended, or so we believe. What we cannot see or touch or feel or converse with any longer may yet be. Somewhere. Only we don’t yet know.

Go then if you must

It’s hard there but not this

Where we’ll put is rightly dust

For that’s how you shan’t us miss.