When in times of amnesia, Allister felt compelled to stare blankly. Of course, these cases tended to be along the minor as opposed to the major. That is to say that these cases were usually examples of the sudden loss of a simple idea, not the sudden loss of memories all together.
And so it was that Allister would stare, would let his coffee grow cold and your patience grow tired. And he would stare. But, you would not be so impatient and his coffee would not be so cold if you and it could see what Allister was doing behind the stare.
For, there, he was chasing the idea that had so clearly stood on the tip of his tongue and, whose shadow so clearly remained. But, the rest (the content, shall we say) had retreated somewhere far behind some deep, dark neurological corner. With the idea of a machete, Allister would hack through the thick ingrowths of gray and white matter as if they did not matter at all. Nothing mattered. In fact, it all anti-mattered.
What mattered only was the thought that had disappeared. And Allister could almost hear it. Not enough to grab it. Barely hearing, but still knowing it was there, he chased the idea. Like the boing of some pogo sticked runaway whose speed was just enough to round the corner before you could catch a glimpse.
Allister would follow the boinging through the trails and paths of the former conversation, whose terrain was suddenly barren. Nothing was alive, nothing was as he remembered it. Sentences and trees had lined the path. And, now, all seemed to have been chopped down. Not just chopped either. For, things that were chopped can still be read. No, these were chopped and shredded. And, the sawdust and letters were swept into a dustpan and dumped out his ears.
Yet, Allister still chased. In some cases, he would eventually catch the idea-who may have had a sudden cramp or perhaps the spring of their pogo stick sprung. In other cases, he would remain chasing far after you had left and his coffee had froze.
And so it was that Allister would stare, would let his coffee grow cold and your patience grow tired. And he would stare. But, you would not be so impatient and his coffee would not be so cold if you and it could see what Allister was doing behind the stare.
For, there, he was chasing the idea that had so clearly stood on the tip of his tongue and, whose shadow so clearly remained. But, the rest (the content, shall we say) had retreated somewhere far behind some deep, dark neurological corner. With the idea of a machete, Allister would hack through the thick ingrowths of gray and white matter as if they did not matter at all. Nothing mattered. In fact, it all anti-mattered.
What mattered only was the thought that had disappeared. And Allister could almost hear it. Not enough to grab it. Barely hearing, but still knowing it was there, he chased the idea. Like the boing of some pogo sticked runaway whose speed was just enough to round the corner before you could catch a glimpse.
Allister would follow the boinging through the trails and paths of the former conversation, whose terrain was suddenly barren. Nothing was alive, nothing was as he remembered it. Sentences and trees had lined the path. And, now, all seemed to have been chopped down. Not just chopped either. For, things that were chopped can still be read. No, these were chopped and shredded. And, the sawdust and letters were swept into a dustpan and dumped out his ears.
Yet, Allister still chased. In some cases, he would eventually catch the idea-who may have had a sudden cramp or perhaps the spring of their pogo stick sprung. In other cases, he would remain chasing far after you had left and his coffee had froze.
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