Sins

When I finished-up yesterday, as I was benching, I wondered what the fuck I had written, did it make any sense, and how the fuck did I end up where I Ended-Up.  Within seconds I forget the titles of the blogs (chapters).  It's an eerie feeling, one filled with dread-as-spice.  I know what causes it, an Old Poet Who Lived By A Pond.  He was happenstanced by a visitor.  Visitor looked inside to see poems in the cracks of the Poet's Cave.  He read them.  Some were beautiful.  He turned to the Pond-er-er.  "These are amazing, why do you not share them ?"  The Cave Man shrugged.  "These are sins.  I write the poems on the water's Surface where they should remain."

 I want that--to be free---.  But I have an Ego, the Pond aint enough.

Today I wondered if Truth is relative to Time.  How the fuck would that even work ?
I wondered if it's the way Steve Winwood lays it out, "Time is a River / flowing through to Nowhere".  Is Time a River ?  Is THAT what carried me to Ended-Up ?  I wondered that my writing is just a description of   The Land That Time Passed By.

What's THAT all about ?