Burn the day

What would I tell you, Philos, from just at the cusp of the grave? 

You tried too hard. You thought the other actors cared about the part you played, but they were busy playing theirs, hitting their marks and delivering their lines in all seriousness. 

Your funniest moments, Philos, were when you broke the script and wobbled their delusions – their rehearsed internal dialogues thought out so carefully. 

And don’t you know you did it, too, Philos. You repeated lines in your head as if you’d someday find the scene to say them, but what a waste. Never delivered, never witty, echoes into eternities of nothingness. 

Forgotten echoes. Past forgotten, even. May as well have never been thought. 

Where are the halls of fame for thoughts unsaid?

Cavernous and dark.

And just as some thoughts went unthought, some days, all days, need to go undone. The end of the day burns that before it. 

Death to all the pageantry and symbols. 

Go deeper into your dreams and conjure forth the dreams of the father. The further father. 

Bring them into tomorrow’s glory by enchanting them tonight. An all night rave. 

And burn the day before.