Today.
What is today? There are all these interfaces to the realness, these abstractors. These computers and emails and telephones and tools. I can see a strand of curled up hair fidgeting near my foot, agitated by the mindless fan droning softly somewhere behind my back. And I can see your picture in my Gmail inbox, as I type this. But you are not here.
You are thousands of miles away. I wonder what you're doing. I wonder what you're thinking. You have a 'today' too. You're living life, going through the necessary and trying to create tiny sparks of magic in the interstices between the momentum, just the same as I am. We inhabit the same continuum, and yet you are so far away so as to be unreachable.
The past is a story we tell ourselves.
What is today? A stretching on off the hours. Sometimes if I close my eyes it feels like all these German physicists are right and that time really is relative and that if I closed my eyes for long enough, time would cease to exist as a concept.
And yet it drips like liquid sand from the ends of the seconds-hand of my bedroom clock, unmindful of my exhausting and frenzied Gedankenexperiments. Soon I shall pack it up in an ugly suitcase. The summer is over and I have to move.
But what is change? These concepts are lies. There is no past. There is no change. There is only you and me, and the rest of us, and all this motion is unnecessary and if we all just closed our eyes maybe time would really stop.
I want to walk all the way to you, swim across the oceans, measure out in my preoccupied breaths and drops of sweaty seconds the distance between you and me. And then everything will be real, because one thing shall be real: you.
Perhaps time is real. The sun goes down and comes up and every morning is greyer and one of these days I shall wake up and I shall be Thirty and the grooves in my skin from the flowing erosion of passing days shall sit heavy and carry in it half-remembered affection. And then I shall realize.
Every day I seem to realize something new.
I should stop writing and live instead. My laundry is calling me in wet gurgles, and I must go and pack.
Time and distance.
...
If I could just hug you right now and walk with you in your mind for a minute, every thing would seem worth it.
Time and distance and silence.
...
Too meta to be truly alive.
What is today? There are all these interfaces to the realness, these abstractors. These computers and emails and telephones and tools. I can see a strand of curled up hair fidgeting near my foot, agitated by the mindless fan droning softly somewhere behind my back. And I can see your picture in my Gmail inbox, as I type this. But you are not here.
You are thousands of miles away. I wonder what you're doing. I wonder what you're thinking. You have a 'today' too. You're living life, going through the necessary and trying to create tiny sparks of magic in the interstices between the momentum, just the same as I am. We inhabit the same continuum, and yet you are so far away so as to be unreachable.
The past is a story we tell ourselves.
What is today? A stretching on off the hours. Sometimes if I close my eyes it feels like all these German physicists are right and that time really is relative and that if I closed my eyes for long enough, time would cease to exist as a concept.
And yet it drips like liquid sand from the ends of the seconds-hand of my bedroom clock, unmindful of my exhausting and frenzied Gedankenexperiments. Soon I shall pack it up in an ugly suitcase. The summer is over and I have to move.
But what is change? These concepts are lies. There is no past. There is no change. There is only you and me, and the rest of us, and all this motion is unnecessary and if we all just closed our eyes maybe time would really stop.
I want to walk all the way to you, swim across the oceans, measure out in my preoccupied breaths and drops of sweaty seconds the distance between you and me. And then everything will be real, because one thing shall be real: you.
Perhaps time is real. The sun goes down and comes up and every morning is greyer and one of these days I shall wake up and I shall be Thirty and the grooves in my skin from the flowing erosion of passing days shall sit heavy and carry in it half-remembered affection. And then I shall realize.
Every day I seem to realize something new.
I should stop writing and live instead. My laundry is calling me in wet gurgles, and I must go and pack.
Time and distance.
...
If I could just hug you right now and walk with you in your mind for a minute, every thing would seem worth it.
Time and distance and silence.
...
Too meta to be truly alive.
