1 — The Unexpected Guest
Sometimes meaning just shows up.
It arrives like a neighbour you didn’t invite, in the middle of breakfast,
sits for a moment on your chair, whispers something slightly off, and leaves.
You think you’ve caught it. You think it will linger.
It doesn’t.
It vanishes, leaving only the smell of toast and a puzzled smile.
And yet—oh—didn’t that brief visitor change something?
Not your schedule, not your plans, just the way the light hit the table.
It happened. That’s all.
2 — The Misplaced Memo
Once, a library tried to preserve every possible meaning.
Books stacked themselves by size, then by colour, then by what the librarian had for breakfast.
Letters arrived in envelopes addressed to nobody.
Notes on sticky pads multiplied overnight.
And did any of it accumulate?
Of course not.
The pile toppled, papers flew, a pigeon nested in the aisle.
Everything that mattered… drifted somewhere else entirely.
The librarian sighed.
And laughed.
Meaning happens, but it does not accumulate.
3 — The Relational Drift
A cat brushed past a musician’s foot, a child spilled water on a page,
and someone laughed a laugh that didn’t belong to them.
These moments touched each other, collided, shuffled away.
Meaning happened in the collision, but not for long.
It did not pause to collect signatures.
It did not check for witnesses.
And that, my friend, is the fun of it:
relational drift, a festival of impermanence,
all happening right under our noses, whether we notice or not.
4 — The False Alarm
Humanity loves to pretend it can control meaning.
People draw maps, make lists, catalogue dreams, insist on “lessons learned.”
All of it, meaningless in its attempt.
A spilled cup, a missed train, a fleeting glance—these are the phenomena.
Responsibility? Overrated.
Legacy? Fiction.
Completeness? Ha.
Try to hold it, and it slips.
Try to organise it, and it rebels.
All the while, meaning quietly happens anyway.
5 — The Punchline
A single piece of string lay across the floor.
A child picked it up, tied it around a cup, and laughed.
A dog walked through, knocking the cup over.
The child shrieked, the dog barked, the string fell in a new shape.
Nothing was preserved.
Nothing mattered more than the next sneeze, the next glance.
And yet—oh yes, meaning happened.
It does not accumulate.
It never has.
It never will.
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