Bond

Abscondence

It is widely thought by the brilliant and the ever-questioning that thoughts may travel faster than the speed of light. Bruised neurons in the brain, flooding to the brim with memory after memory, fire any and every reaction to any single event.

The brain has always had its own agenda. Think fast, survive. Think slow, you lose; and if you do, the world cares little for the repercussions. At the very foundation at which it lies, the brain does not discriminate. It has a goal.

The brain is like that: cruel and unmistakably manipulative. It is desperately deviant and so endlessly open to thought, that it is recklessly inclined on poisoning itself with pleasure. Therefore, on the topics of speed and the human mind, there is no telling how fast thoughts can truly travel.

The cycle is indefinite. Our methods continue to rely on the acceptance of theories created by thoughts malformed through our own, frail unique frames of reference. Even then, maybe all we have believed is wrong.

Maybe speed is not measured through a unit, but through purpose. And maybe that is why any species has always discredited their own: because a thought has purpose, but little to that compared of light, traveling countless years through a black galaxy only to foster feeble life and the search for knowledge that ensues.

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

The sun was sinking slowly; a crimson boat filling slowly with water.

Soon, Marselie Edwards would have to face the dreadful life she was placed into, but it was okay. She'd have to be okay with it, especially if there was no choice in the matter. No one was willing to hear the lone desert cries of a child bruised and beaten. Much like a brain, any given section of  Planet Earth had its own agenda.

She fondly remembered the gentle foreword of a book she had picked up in the school library: The Immovable Purpose of Thought. Marselie wished that one day she could meet the author of that book and shake their hands so tightly that her tears would finally be for something worth crying. There was a time in her life when she had wept to the point of dehydration, but Marselie made a resolution after that week.

She would never again cry to remain in a bottomless slump. There were worse things to despair over. It was a promise that she had nearly broken countless times.

Although Marselie knew it was always best to keep her silence and to keep both of her feet planted firmly on the ground, she could not deny her incessant urge to end the overwhelming sadness in her heart. Day by day Marselie detested the ground she walked on and the skin she lived in.

She just wished she didn't have to.

The watch on Marselie's wrist vibrated with life, signaling death bells. She clenched her teeth at the idea of coming home. Any time away from it was raw bliss.

The boy next to her was snoring, completely unaware that he was waking up all life that dwelled on the Nevada plain. Marselie did not debate with herself over whether she should wake him up or not, although the solution was obvious enough. The sun was setting, and Jericho was as afraid of the night as she was about coming home.

"See you tomorrow?" he asked before speeding off in the direction of his home like he normally did.

Marselie didn't know. There were so many futures she was unsure about, but none of them took her outside of the wretched path she had lived all her life.

When she took too long to reply he walked up to her and said, "Cross your heart."

It was their own thing. A quiet oath that held Marselie to her promise of surviving to see another day, no matter what bruises she might collect at home.