Before we were even able to pronounce the three consonants in « next », we could, and would, say « neck ».

We were kids playing hard games, me-first-and-I-am-gonna-be-the-doctor-not-you games. The kind of games where one could be head and tail altogether, but never any lower than the top.

We were playing each in our own head, apparently sharing a part of our world but sharing it with whom I have no idea because no-one was really listening. Sharing apart, we were.

On one of those fog-clear days, I wipe myself off the world and think, « Aren’t we all kids building up our own stories and floors out of blocks? Aren’t we just blocking ourselves from the « nexts »: The person next to us, the next person who comes, the next opportunities that come in the shape of pains in the neck? »

Oftentimes I feel I am building my own next steps. I have been locking myself away, sleeping in my blog, living just what my head told me to.

We’ve been wrapped in our games, as presents to the next ones. Our own worlds pile up under trees, and no matter how far their contents is spread, they remain secrets.

Short is the path between a consonant and none. Short is the pat between two consonants.

As short as a lifetime, maybe.