I fell asleep and woke up to find it was February. The great, grey oil slick of despondent January is fading into the distance. Snowdrops peer out, blinking below the crusty garden willow, green shoots emerge promising tulips and daffodils. The light and seasons confirm that we still see life and time as linear and mysterious. Our perception is as dull as we want it to be. The future still a black hole and always out of reach until it collapses onto us despite how smartly we think we read the signs.
We've yet to evolve into a more circular and all encompassing vision of our lives and times. So we trundle on in some kind of darkened chaos peering through the slit in the prison cell door, looking at things presented through the odd angle's distortion so we can't quite fathom them yet. I blame Wes Anderson for skewing my world view but also thank him for somehow making it all real to me.
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