MERRIDAWN DUCKLER

Parable of the Credo

I’m done trying to say things. Saying things is a dime a dozen, or not even that. The things I say, you can’t hardly give away, almost have to pay people to hear them, as my listener nods and moves body parts to prove they haven’t fallen asleep. They have. They did it as a defense against the things I said. No wonder the center won’t hold. There is no center. Eventually a warehouse is erected somewhere unimportant, some desert or abandoned mall. The things I said get stored there, not very airtight, without much ceremony. Just to get them out of the way. Early on a few souls poke around, out of curiosity but eventually it’s a place wholly forgotten, a fly over. A hundred years goes by, and there’s a revolution that makes a big change in the world. The warehouse is re-discovered. Academicians arrive to open the trove as the public watches. Access is fiercely protected. People spend years trying to reconstruct my said things, bringing all the greatest technology to bear on the reconstruction. Outside the building a few highly trained experts in lab coats, deep in thought. A colleague was collapsed the other day that a word might have been lost due to system negligence. My genetic ancestor comes by, on the contemporary equivalent of a bicycle. Hey, they call out to the uniformed body standing at the entryway, what’s in that damn building that needs so much security. The guard is large, short legs, thick toro, a former convict, glad to have this easy job. They take a last inhale and then grind out the future equivalent of a cigarette. Move along now, says the guard, nothing here for the likes of you.