It will happen on a Thursday. That is the only thing I can say for sure. I set the mechanism, it can become active once every seven days. Once a week. Every week. Any week. Always a Thursday.
This is a confession. That much should be obvious. This note’s existence is proof of my guilt. I will not elaborate further, it is unnecessary. I do not want anyone else to blamed. This was a solo endeavour. Others would not understand why I do this. They could not be involved.
I do not expect to be alive when you read this. There is a small chance I shall be, that must be acknowledged. If so, do as you must. I will not resist. Though I hope it will be after my death. A selfish hope. The guilt would be immeasurable. I do not know how I would cope. In death I will not feel guilt. I will not feel proud. I will feel nothing. It is better that way.
I worried for a long time. What if I made a mistake? Perhaps I set the cycle to repeat every six-point-nine-nine-nine days. Compound the error, and then I am wrong. I cannot be allowed to be wrong. And what of clocks, calendars? They have changed before, they could change again. What then? In wilder moments I worry the week will be replaced. Thursdays, obsolete. I think of the death of humanity, of Thursday becoming forgotten to time. Those are foolish fears. I see that now. It does not matter what happens. When it happens. This moment I create is the starting point, the definition. So I must be right. When it happens, it will be a Thursday. All other Thursdays shall be defined from that. A universal truth. The first Thursday. Yet to come.
I do not know when the day shall arrive. I have neither that right nor that arrogance. It is inevitable. That is all I need to know. That is all any of us need to know. The knowledge it shall happen. And the day it shall happen. A Thursday.
I have one request. I do not expect you to acknowledge it. I ask anyway. Do not speculate. Do not read more than you should. It is not Thors-Day. It is not T-Hers-Day. It is not the Furst-Day. It is Thursday. The whole in of itself.
I will explain why I did this. I do not promise you will understand. You will not understand. Imagine you are an adult, thinking back on being a child. In one hand you hold the tail of a kite. It is flying, for in all memories with a kite it must fly. It moves through the air. You remember the motion. You feel a pull. Your grip is firm. You do not know what day it is. It did not matter to you. You hear someone call you. It was your mother, but this is a memory, you do not remember. Your grip loosens for a moment. You feel a release, an emptiness. You reach out. It is gone. You look up to the sky. It is empty. Then the memory ends, and you are alone. You were always alone. You look outside your window. It is dark. You think you see something move in the distance. It is a Thursday.
Kyle Writes Stuff 