So many lives and stories stay aloof from us. Hidden behind their sheer numbers and engulfed within the dimensions of space and time. Yes time, the present of the past, the present of the present and the present of the future. The now and the not now.
This very instant. What occupies this space that we fill with our own world? Why is this thing called time straight as an arrow? And why is it limited, but only for us? It’s as invaluable a thing to us as anything could be. And yet, there’s nothing that defines it other than the memories and the this breath here that fills it. A container like no other, which when filled up becomes of no use to us.
Oh save those breaths for me. I will use it for a productive purpose sometime. But what purpose would justify its use?
I just can’t bring myself to re-read a book. I fee like there is just not enough time to go through it a second time. There’s just too many unread voices out there calling out. And yet, books as with the world around us, is defined by what we make of it. Some find a complete essence of their passion in a single work while some wander about till times end for that elusive completeness.
Distilled thoughts and strange observations. Faraway worlds and asimilar people. This peek into their lives, imagined and real, are virtual realiti es aren’t they? The words bind themselves together in such a fashion that the world they make us visualize become live and complex.
Why do we like complexity? Or nuance? Is it not for the untested belief that nothing is as simple as it appears? And yet, the search for that elusive master algorithm, that harbinger of singularity, is presupposed to be a simple nugget. Like 42.
We equate complexity to richness. If not in the physical world then the mental world. And yet, why do societies oscillate constantly between the nuanced and the populist leader? Is it not because we move back to the simple and the mundane by default every now and then? If evolution is straight like time, does that not violate the thesis?
Our circadian rhythm, this round prison of tick tock to-dos we constantly sit within, the faraway motions of planetary bodies we can only observe from afar, the urgency of a tight deadline and the languor of the time you camp out near the mythical largesse of this world (the ocean beach or the mountain top). We locate ourselves in this expanse, this white space that digests everything in its wake and expires every moment. We find ourselves, define ourselves across this spectrum with nothing to show for it except the memories.
The years are markers in a sense. Of the expenditure we have already incurred by way of this precious commodity that incessantly slips through our breaths. Signposts of the ephemeral carbon bodies we all are. A marker here and a marker there are all we that we leave behind.