then, again

The past is dangerous, as much, if not more than, the future. The past has a way of rearranging itself. Losers become grand and noble things base. Of course some friends would say to me, why suffer it? Why even consider it? And my former friends would say, you’re fucked up and don’t get involved with that mess. The girl came by to tell me all my observations don’t make me right. Said that inherently I’m selfish, that I even said so myself, that I could only live this way with crazy dysfunctional chics and no healthy girl with a solid self image would ever put up with me. I apologized, then sat there and cried. I loved her and now I was going to suffer it. Again. I couldn’t lash back and didn’t want to. She may have been saying exactly what she feels and this, at least, was a good thing. I looked to the monitor just as this pictured flashed by the screen in some random cycles so I called it back and looked at it with my hot red eyes. I saw the past but what I saw in it now changed. I saw all real views are divided and will contain something to sever the plane. S _ _ _ would say that this reality shit is dubious and queer and that the only thing that makes someone good at something sometimes is that they are the only one doing it. Maybe both things are right. I focused back on the picture and traced the path in my mind from it to the apartment and back, traced the steps in my mind up the road, up past the old wall and up through the garden where this image was made. Florence is dangerous. It swims with nostalgia. I saw it though, I saw both sides. I saw how it split the people and how it held them. I saw a distance and the distance saw me. I wrestled with that nostalgia like a mean fag and launched toward the future. The future was aggressive and foul, not luring in the least. It insisted on a fight and uncertain outcomes. The past mirrored the future. The past was a dark skinned man posing as Caucasian and the future was a white skinned women posing as black. I may be closer to present.