Thursday, November 09, 2006

anything

time, time, and time. "Of what manner of stuff is the web of time wove?" --Thoreau's journal. How shall I say this...I'm tired. This will be another long night--of staying up merely because not all the problems are solved, not because I care, but because that old good student still inside me somewhere says I should be working (he has since been beaten into a small corner). Time always seems to slip away more quickly when it is seemingly an ocean of possibility. And becomes barren. Suddenly the roar of water falling off the edge of the flat world becomes audible. And your pencil cannot write quickly enough, even if your mind could tranverse the logical connections and implications fast enough to squeeze it all in, in time. This ocean of possibility is but a sickening glut. A glut of possibility is as good as impossibility. Unless one has the courage to make a decision. To begin to make an incision in this glut of time to cut it down to size.

But today, perhaps for the last time, it was warm. Probably 75 degrees. And the air smelled of warm leaves. As I walked home from school I looked out across the hills to the north-east of town to see the hills browning, and the turnpike weaving its way toward Kansas City. I've been living here three months now. I never tire of being able to look out on this vista to see how it has changed but stayed the same.

0 Comments:

Post a Comment

<< Home