This is my impression for this week’s prompt on thinking. There’s a loop hidden in my loops.
Logic bends back on itself, the way day bends back into night. Night yawns into darkness as infinite as cyberspace, where my words spread out in lines that loop back on themselves, rerunning thoughts through the human processors of life’s infinitely looping program.
Program a mantra, a ritual, a fearless loop that will march words from my brain to my fingers without the worry that the prose isn’t perfect. Perfect my imperfection until no flaws inhabit my lines, until there is no risk the lines mirror back a personal flaw reflected in the third word of the fourth paragraph’s fifth sentence.
Sentence me to soulless loops that curve around my deviations, that line me up and fill my pages with clear, impenetrable logic.
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