BreakAway: Tarradiddle

There was calm in the distance, different from now.

Squirrels were always hopping to and from, burying their tiny, little, heads into their miniscule, shuffling, hands and when they felt their face was just not dirty enough because it seldom ran itself into the black dirty. “I shall rub the blackness onto face” thought the squirrel, and so he did, and so does every squirrel. Its other animals too, cats will follow, dogs, even the sorrowful human will take part in such an ancient act. Many people, or socialists, try to mechanically derive the purpose of such an out of place act. Never realizing that perhaps at one time or another in life animals just want to go back to where they came from… The Dirt. And isn’t that, in essence, the prose of every story, for everyone is born at peace. It is not like some hellish fictitious fearsome reality where we come into the world fighting forces we know no bounds of, crying at the helplessness we truly have, and once our bodies are completely torn away from the only home we knew, again it’s not like we just lie there covered in the blood of our family wanting to break the time we spend away.

I was born a long time ago, longer than any story can recount the ages of, but then again when has a story ever truly counted but in the depth of its pages… rarely. But a second time, when is a book bound story every told without those countings. Of course book bound does tidy up the qualifications to fit, but I find those are the ones that last, even the story of genesis needs the bible, and even the bible needs its countings. It’s not just bookly wordings, Other things count, calculators, abacus’, mathematicians, squirrels, years, but I have never counted as is the true meaning, there is no need to, it serves no purpose to know that so far I have told exactly 270 words of this story, it helps me none, and it helps you none. On the other metaphorical hand, perhaps something important is due… This is not my story, yet, At the current time of fickle minded fiends I remain the one who can recount the story for its all of its preciseities and its inaccuracies that have yet to be told and blundered on like truthly word bound ills.

And you might be wondering when the story is going to start for all you’ve heard so far is babblings from somewhere, towering above somewhere. All stories have a beginning, but not all stories have an introduction. So you’re tardingly welcome... sometimes I wish I knew more words so didn’t have to repeat the same one and look like a blundering fool...