Later

You’re late.

I know.

Like really late.

I know, I know.

Like you wouldn’t belie-

I get it.

So you’re impatient now, too?

No, I wasn’t trying to be it’s ju-

I am impatient.

Oh.

No reason to be surprised, Kacper.

Again, I get it.

If you do, then we might as well get started, given my impatience and all.

Okay.

Ready?

Am I dressed well?

You’re dripping in sweat, balding by the minute, and you’re astonishingly naked.

Perfect.

It’s fitting for the occasion, I guess.

I thought a reverse birth of sorts would be.

Enough chitchat – let’s go.

Okay.

Aren’t you going to?

What?

You didn’t ask if I was ready, Kacper.

Sorry. Are you ready Blog?

Not really. Ten years of this blog, of me. That’s incredible.

It really is, isn’t it?

How the heck did you do it?

Word by word.

But ten years on a single blog, with few followers, fewer worthwhile sentences, and even less fantastic ideas, it truly is amazing.

Didn’t I do anything good?

There was that one thing.

Which?

I can’t remember it.

Oh, darn.

Can you?

I’m thinking, but I’m currently embroiled in this piece.

It won’t be very good either.

How do you know? It is not done yet.

Because it never is.

Hey, that’s not very nice.

I know, but you made me after all. And I am not very nice.

I guess that’s true.

In fact, come to think of it, you made all of us a bit ugly.

Not intentionally – I was trying my best at each time.

You mean at each moment. Your grammar has gotten sloppy, Kacper.

Blog, I get it. I ha-

You’ve said “I get it” three times now in less than 600 words. You’ve become cookie-cutter or just unoriginal?

Both probably.

Not true. Looks more like just cookies.

What?

You’ve gained weight.

Look, Blog, I’m sorry I’ve been away.

I don’t ca-

And I know it hurt you.

You weren’t here.

But I’m here now. And I am ready. Are you?

I have been ready for 9 months, Kacper.

Then let’s get going.

Let’s.

… and beside the stark, fat naked man stood a sparsely put together collection. Of what? Of light and nothingness. Of the weak pulse of a newborn. Of looseness. Of old disregard and disgust. Of you.

Impartiality had given way to the unruly. Where daily updates once were, the blog now rested empty. Where numerous writings were done for the sky and sun, now there was only what was before them, and what will be after them, too.

The man was puzzled. Not of the indifference to the universe he created, but rather, to the slipshoddiness of it on its tenth birthday that passed 3 months ago, on April 21st. Among the pieces here on the blog were old girlfriends who had gotten older yet, those who had found newer lovers despite the love letters, who would not recognize the man in the street. There were stories of characters, thousands of thousands of words. The brag of breath hummed in the work. But in other places, it wheezed.

There was poetry. There were ten good sentences in the lot out of the hundreds composed. There were those sentences again, not in the same poem, not in the right order anyways.

A brother roamed. A father bruised his way in. The man was sure that the blog also contained his mother, but was worried about the Opedial connotation. Wasn’t everything about mothers, he would’ve said. If not, he would assure you it was proof that it was all about mothers in the end.

He wasn’t much of one, though he birthed this blog in slobbery exuberance. His mother once told him she had read it, and didn’t understand what was being said. He blames the late development of language on his mother.

If you were to ask him, though, what his proudest creation would be, he would point to the blog in its disrepair and disaster and miscommunication. He would stretch his hand, invite you to come closer, and say to read read read read read read read read read read read read read read read read read read read read read read read read.

Each one. Everyone one. Until your mouth soured and dust was all you know. Until even the flies left you alone out of revulsion. Until there was nothing.

The man is 29 now, with apparently still a lot remaining. He touches his hair. Some bits fall out. He pets his belly. It growls like a wild dog.

But he will continue, stupidly, selfishly, surprisingly, early or late.

For what these last ten years have shown him is that there exists something so true and pure, something totally untouchable, in the mizpelt wurdz. They are the ones that are not warped by correction or conscious adulteration.

They are simply present. Ready. Here. Early or late. Early or late.