Sometimes I feel outside of time, like I’ve lost track of the order. Me and Billy Pilgrim, Kurt Vonnegut’s unstuck in time protagonist from Slaughterhouse Five.
“That’s already happened,” I tell myself, “that hasn’t happened yet,” when I feel an ominous rush of prescience.
Time is liquid yet totally rigid, deceptive any way you look at it. And perhaps these thoughts are the ones that arise after a raft of dark, gloomy soggy days, cozy for a while until you get too thinky.
For me, time is one of those things that I’ll never totally understand, one of those concepts that rules our lives and yet is meaningless in many ways.
And meaningful in others. The past, once past, might as well be solidly behind glass, sometimes mottled, sometimes warped, but you can see it there, see it, but can’t touch it.
In front, a vast emptiness that springs into being as you enter it, one walkway stone by one walkway stone. From something to nothing; no wonder so many people choose to live in the past, already seen, already known. But not quite reachable.
And such are my thoughts on a wet Monday morning when I haven’t even had my coffee yet.
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