Mood Piece February 9 2018

He hated how it was always contextual, the world and every bloody thing in it. Some deep part of him craved stability, needed there to be some sense of continuity or actuality to everything. Why was nothing ever solid. So many shadows, always changing when he moved the light. That memory had held up so much and now it had shifted, become something new and untamed in his hands. It had all flipped so suddenly. Like a mirror he had taken for a window, everything suddenly stretched and flattened as he looked at it from this new vantage. It felt...violent, ripping a sense of reality out from under him and demanding he deal with a new world he hadn't imagined was possible in the light of the old sun. Everywhere you go you take yourself with you, he thought; but if you were always changing who exactly were you riding with? If you couldn't ever be sure where you had been, where exactly were you going?