The Beginnings Factory

It’s like buying a new corvette; tasteless and desperate and obvious. Yet somehow it feels unique, inspired, individualized. Different.

It isn’t.

He picked up the book of scraps, cleared off the table, began assembling the cut outs and notes and pages in some schizophrenic map on the table. Must purchase a corkboard, he thought, wondering briefly if such things were even sold anymore in this digital age.

Fuck the digital age.

As he laid bare his old soul, his misspent youth and naive dreams, as he wallowed in his own cleverness, he smiled to himself. He needed to turtle up. He needed a cave. A box house (he smirked). He need nothing more than a place to be alone. And time! He needed nothing but time with which to use this inspiration, this final moment of epiphany after all the years of waiting.

As he furiously reassembled his scraps, his seeds, his life onto the tabletop, he willfully suppressed a single thought: what had he had before, during these last 15 years since locking away his scraps … what had he had since then if not loneliness? If not time?

But the realization of the inadequacy of a lifetime was not something he could so readily embrace on this particular day. And so instead, he picked apart his scraps, rediscovering a rose-tinted version of himself and who he was always meant to be.

And for whatever that was worth, however fleeting a feeling, it felt good.

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