All There Is

this, is all there is--- this page, this typeface, these words, shot out amongst the surface as a leaf blower might, if that mechanism inside which is used to suck up a plethora of leaves, malfunctioned & all of the leaves that had been captured prior, now blow out all over the yard--- imagine all those gorgeous leaves of ever-so-fragile substance now drained of their chlorophyll--- replacing the once homogenously dominant green with the heterogeneously multifarious, mosaic & motley crew of flushed fuscias, glowing garnets, amazing amaranthines, alluring ambers, lusciously light lemons, perfect peaches & terrific titians (to name a few)--- and the person doing the leaf blowing gone awry, that person’s closest friends and family, all the work & social connections between them, the history of their prospective movements from location to location (stirring up the sands of life every-which-way, elsewhere), the offspring, the creative endeavors, the successes & the failures, the hobbies & the committed life’s work, the family trips & all the connections found within, the trips alone & the deep introspection, the slowing down, the graying of the hair, the loss of the hair, the taking it all at your own pace, finally, and then the distinct perfect peace that comes with it all ceasing--- without consequence, without any greater meaning, without allegiance to any force or entity outside oneself & their own pursuits--- when it had all ground so quick you were certain the gears would have gone years before--- but the individual disappears & the personality can be only found in the stamp of memory which dwells in the actions & the words of their journey--- while those still living take the bits & pieces that they want to, discard the rest, and pass on the story that you have written without picking up a pencil, without sitting down at the computer, without a care about the typeface, the words, or that pesky leaf blower.