The Almost Symphony
I. The Altar of Almost
We’ve long since forfeited lifting up half-hearted prayers to the altar of almost, that pseudo-shrine of near achievement where an out-of-reach challis is prominently perched. This, despite what we’ve been told about petition and sincere supplication. Thoughts of unburdening your almosts land in an empty confessional where a screen and wood-embroidered separation admonishes every admission, where silence is a heavier affliction than the sin of almost.
II. Almost Remains Scoreless
There is no formal scorecard for tabulating the almosts. Every almost exists in the ether, uncounted, an unfashionable scratch, a prelude to cancel culture. Nobody shares the raw data of almost in fear of offending the self-professed, the anointed achievers, those who get the most, display it with upmost confidence, cast heavy shadows atop the great whisperers of almost who can’t help but keep count.
Between already and not yet, in liminal space they lurch in search of identity. Accepting almost is a setback deeper than not yet, a feeling more like never. They are unsure of its composition, unable to explain what it means, though they know it when they see it.
It has no crescendo, there is no coda. It doesn’t know how to bow. There are no strings attached. It is a perpetual skip in the record, not realizing that this is the record.