The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive


My Electrons

My electrons say hello to your electrons. Sometimes they disappear.
Sometimes I disappear but then I'm back with no new ideas. My
electrons are borrowed space and borrowed time and none of those.
Sometimes they wave to me and then I just blur out on the details
but that's the condition of my electrons. I'd look to their bigger
cousins but I think I'd lose them in the mix, certainly I'm less
virtual online or in my other lives than I'd be just hanging with
them and waiting for something to happen which always does sooner
or later and my electrons might just turn out elsewhere as if they
carried some sort of secret signal which of course they don't. I
think I might get rid of some of them if I ever speak again, you
can't tell what's happening these days or nanoseconds when every-
thing you know is wrong. You might be thinking, well, this is his
poem and everyone has a right to it, but it's not a poem at all,
but an absolute truth: give me a few weeks or months or years and
I'll disperse and that will put an end to it. The electrons won't
know from Adam or Eve and will probably be well, elsewhere, with
a sense of relief that there's nothing more they've got to do
with my depression. I won't miss them. I won't even be around to
miss them. As far as I'm concerned, there'd be other things to
worry about at that point, and I won't worry about them either.
This is not a poem or a | and not even a goodbye of sorts, it's
more or less nothing at all.

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