Written by Ferris Ellis on May 27th, 2018. All rights reserved.
Some days are the Other Days. The days that aren’t really days, because a day must exist as a whole. On such days, the Other Days, I find myself looking at it. Not throughout the Other Days, as they aren’t really days. In fact it is because of this that they aren’t days. These hour long moments of looking at it, or rather, looking into it. But of course there is nothing of it to see within it, within itself. Like looking into a hall or mirrors, you can’t “see” the mirrors, only their effect, only yourself. And so I cast my gaze into it and it loops around so I witness myself in unyielding moments. The sort that intersect and bisect a day, like unneeded punctuations these moments in a day are such that it is no longer “a day” but one of the “Other Days”.
Not any day may be an Other Day. They require vast amounts of space which has zero “room”. A rip in the continuum, when its pulse misses a beat, and you’re engulfed in it such that all you might do is look at it, into it, through it, through myself, through the void.
And you know, and you know that you know, what you’re seeing isn’t what is. The distortion is too palpable to ignore, to exaggerated to overlook. Regardless, when you’re perceiving yourself in these unending moments you reflect upon the reflection. And you’d think, reflecting upon your reflection, a reflection you know to not be true, that you’d find resolution. And resolution would be nice, especially during the Other Days. But no, because all you know is that what you’re perceiving is not what is and you see this in the most uncomfortable of ways. Perceiving that you can’t perceive much anything you question what you’re able to perceive at all. But in these moments, these consuming moments, you have nothing to evict you from your concerns. You’re simply there, on the event horizon of life watching time exist as you search for any evidence that you may surmount yourself as anything else. But you can’t, really, you realize that after a while and after a while longer it comforts you. After a while you learn that it means this moment, and all that it never was, is almost to an end.
When it passes you do not carry it with you. Ideas may be durable but a moments memory may as well be a ghost. Its only evidence is not of itself but of the other things which are not quite as you recall them being. Things which you remember a certain way from certain days gone past. But such is the nature of Other Days, not the good days or the bad days but the other days, which we do not live within and whose memories do not last.