Our Hour

Remember when
you scraped your 
knee as a kid?

Hit the 'not
so funny' bone
on your elbow
as an adolescent?

Delivered a paper cut
to your finger as
an adult?

Had your heart broken,
like blind sided
shattered, not the 
type of break when
you keep taking back
the same waste of time
that you should have
kept in your rear
view mirror?

Have you ever been
attracted to someone
because you idolized 
how they treated you
and then you pulled
back the blinders
and saw that they
treated everyone 
like that?

You felt like your
world was collapsing
in all around you
when all you 
were doing was
crumbling into a place
between pleasure
and pain,
breaking into the 
realization that you
were not as special
as you thought you 

We have become 
beings of habit,
creatures of repeats,
unoriginal copycats,
dissatisfied beings -
once human now robotic,
constantly upgrading,
constantly updating,
constantly plugged in,
constantly constanting,
forgetting about
the one thing,
the one variable,
the one constant,
that makes all
of us equal and puts
all of us on an
somewhat level playing 
at least for now -

that entity being - 

The gaping ravine.

The thinning void
that gets smaller and
smaller with each
passing day.

The black abysmal
line pulsates
as it pulls the
red apart, the 
red that keeps
us bathed in 
blood red stasis.

Is it moving
in the corner
of your eye
are you moving
in the corner
of its eye?
If you stare long
or ignore it,
you might get your

Try not to look
see if you can see
If you are brave,
try to look
see if you cannot 
see it. 

We let the clock
chase us to bed
and wake us up
but rarely do we
let it bring us
back together
to the place
where our memories
used to be.

The nostalgia.
The line in the sand.
The edge of the cliffside.
Cutting our skin,
tearing our clothes away
until nothing remains
but bare skin and bones.

For those that do
meet at that specific
hitching post in time
and space,
it's the same stories 
the same traditions
they constantly remember 
store in their memories,
the legends that live
long in their hearts
bring them joy
until the day they die,
telling the same
repeated stories,
meal after meal,
month after month,
year after year,
holiday after holiday,
with the same joy
as the first time
they experienced them
and felt the need
to share it.

There's an inherent 
power in that ability -
to find solace in
certain memories,
certain stories,
life experiences,
allow them to erase the
painful ones, the
ones that we allow
to take up the
most storage space
in our brain.

Cntrl + Alt + Del >
don't stare for too long 
at the lines that exist
to the right of
this very passage.
They pulsate with life.
Something we used
to know and do
with little

For some of us,
the same stories get 
old and we want to 
create new ones.

For some of us,
the new stories are
not nostalgic and 
we want to get back
to the old ones.

For some of us,
the same stories
aggravate us and
we huff air out
of our mouths
and roll our
clouded eyes with
bored persuasion
when that person 
starts to tell those
precious memories,
us knowing that a 
couple of family folklores
and periodic parables 
was bound to exit
someone's mouth 
before long since
everyone was under
the same roof for
the first time in
'however long'.

For some of us,
the storytellers no
longer walk this
worn out earth of ours,
and our hearts start
to miss their
eyewitness renditions of 
what actually happened 
and not our cheapened 
version of
'do you remember when'.

The red.
The black.
Oblivion is closer
than you think it is.

You think,
it's right around the 
and I think,
my dear, it's closer
than that!

How many scars
can a soul
actually survive
and don't say
a lot.
That's too generic
for me to believe
Quit perverting every
scripture known to man
and twisting it to
fit your wants and
not our needs.

For once, I want 
something definitive.

I want an answer.
Not another question.
Not another lie.
Not another statement.
Not another word.

I crave the definitive!

Have you ever watched
the tiny pebbles of 
sands in an hourglass, 
slowly falling to 
their death 
until the
one holding the
instrument decides 
to turn
it back over again.

Counting the chaos
around us,
the lines just moved
yet again.
Don't stare too long
into the black viscosity.

Remedy this!
Heal me!
Bandage the wrists
that makes the us,

The sad batteries of
the clocks that 
we majestically hang 
slowly die with each 
draining its life 
with each passing 
day until they are 
yanked from their
temporary home,
and replaced by another,
us only glancing at them 
a couple of times 
during the day
when we wanted to know
how close our lunch break
was or when it was 
time for us
to clock out
for the day or take
our 'however many'
bathroom breaks so we 
could privately check
our phone.

The batteries fueled 
these devices with their 
life blood while we sat
on a toilet or stood
in front of a urinal
and scrolled on our
social media accounts.

How many of us feel like
those batteries?

The hanging clocks 
silently scream for 
us to
pound them into eternity
with the heaviest
sledgehammer we can find,
we hang them up 
and crucify their
existence with
sharp, hesitant glances,
the changing of seasons,
the days of dust,
naked to our eyes,
only taking them down
if their life source 
fails them 
it is time to spring
forward or
fall back
if they are no longer

Time chases us,
and all we can do
is just...
watch the watch...
or launch another
or turn our eyes
in the opposite direciton 
as long as we are not
the ones who are
in current suffering.

The red lines are not
bashful about you seeing
them for what they are.
They have been moving
this entire time.

Why hide the rage?

The world has cheapened
the meaning of
a second.

The world has mistreated
the magnitude of a

The world has whored out
the wholesomeness of
an hour.

But we will not let them
anymore because this is
Our Hour,
by God!

Moment to moment,
we check the time.

Month to month,
we mark the calendar
with X's and look forward
to another predestined
point in time that
will merely be
another X

Monday can toast in hell
as long as we have
a birthday party
two Saturdays,
away, right?

We burn calendars like
we used to burn books,
like we used to burn
bodies, when we used
to burn fires to just
keep warm and cook
food and stare into
while reflecting on
our souls and
wondering about
our destined existence
for once, unplugged
and unashamed.

The red.

The black.

The edge.

The lines.

The place where 
unknowns meet.

The years,
oh my God, 
the years,
how many
passed us
and we
act like
it surprises
us when it
was, what,
almost twenty
years ago
and we
claim to
one another 

What have we become?

"it seems like

turns into

"it seems like

turns into

"it seems like
forever ago..."

turns into

"I can't remember
the last time..."

The time is not now.
That is a lie!
The time was
The time was the day
before that.
How long will it
take us to realize
that considering
the future is not
a guarantee?

Red turns to black
turns back to red
and reverberates
the ground.

The future is merely
a lease with a high
interest rate of
how long will your
heart truly keep 
pumping regardless of
the scratches,
the cuts,
the breaks,
the tiredness,
the longing,
the sadness,
the happiness,
the life,
the death,
the in-between,
the dreams,
the nightmares,
the dark,
and the light.

We have trained 
ourselves to
seduce someone
else and, 
truth is,
as time continues
to tick, 
we need to be seducing 
our own selves first, 
and only then,
share that power with
someone else after we
have mastered it.

We all want light
when the dark 
has become
too dark then abandon
the absolute when we 
get bored and
feel like dipping 
our toes into 
something that is void
of everything
so we do not have
to feel something 
for a minute or two.

Endless see-saws...
Our Hour...

If you cannot keep
a promise to
how do you expect
to keep a promise
to someone else?

If you cannot value
your own life,
how can you expect
to value someone
else's life?

When my watch finally
dies, do I really
want to revive it
out of habit by 
replacing the batteries
or do I let the thief 
suffer for a while
like it has done 
to me for years
on end by counting
down the days to
all become ghosts and
finally get our chance
haunt it back like it
has done to us since
our very conception?

Maybe the battery
does not want to fuel
the clock anymore.

Maybe that battery
wants to store
it's potential 
energy and be used
in a better way -
like a kid's toy -
and not fuel
a mechanism that
haunts us humans
every second,
of every minute,
of every hour,
of every day,
of every week,
of every month,
of every year,
of every decade,
of our lives.

Like I have already 
told you - 
the time is not now.
The time was yesterday.

Don't forget that!


Time hates when
we make it stand still,
but sees fit to make
sure that we do in 
its wake,
and we can freeze it 
more often than you think,
if your mind is open
to that concept.

We already have
cemented it in
its very tracks.

Just now.

Me and you.

Take back your life
from the 
black marketeers
that lie in wait around 
every blind corner.  

The time was yesterday.

One day you will believe me.

The lines.
The edge.
The black.
The red.

This is...
Our Hour. 

“Going to the edge and back, one word at a time.”

Vernon Herring

I will be taking a short sabbatical from blogging to work on my first, new, short film project.

Things I will disclose about the film : it will be a narrative, the scenes will be shot in black and white, and it will hopefully be fifteen minutes or less, no guarantees.

I do not know which platform I will post the finished product to as of yet, but I will post updates and links on my Instagram account (vernon.herring), this website, and my podcast channel.

Spotify, Google, Apple, Overcast, Anchor, other podcast platforms : search ‘vernontalks

Feel free to reference my website to anyone who is looking for free, original reads.

Not one post is the same, and the scripts are endless!

Here’s some free ear candy to leave you with…

…wish me luck!


2 Replies to “Our Hour”

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