The clock is always 9:22 and 12 seconds in the den. Upstairs.
I do not know if the world abides by the hands and face.
I do not know if the time is day or night.
Only the proclamation, frozen, plug dangling.
My only experience even of the sun rising and setting, the days gone by, is marked in my own head.
Some chemical reaction swabbed on the self that is the litmus of me.
Acid or base. Or in between.
Pink or blue, or just grey.
Expired? Too balanced to measure, too unyielding to tilt either way, too tilted either way to yield.
The clock is unplugged.
No electrons dictating a trillionth measures removed from the truth of the abstract what the seconds are, the half life of each of our days.
Counting down. Maybe if we are lucky in the biographical self, some true believers tear the body to pieces, a bone shard is labeled with our name, a reliquary of being beyond even what we thought we might transcend. The ultimate insult and reward to a life lived with intention, blended with luck, to become the impossible immortal, performing miracles performed only in minds in disarray.
To turn back the clock, pretend that the decay, the atoms tugging away from our being, towards particles that are not particles, waves that are not waves, beyond our ability to sense as being. Being.
The sterile sadness of quarks and isospin and the never ending quest for that first mover.
The center of the snowflake.
Melting away at Heisenberg's ray.
What there is to know is only to seek out questions. Always.
Questioning the space between, that spark, when once engaged, starts the ticking of the clock, harnessed to an idea no longer essential to 9:22 and 12 seconds.
Neither better nor worse.
Just more gears.
More machinations.
Measures by which to count the chords, the waves that are not waves, the particles that are not particles. Lessening the shock and surprise. Bringing us back to the tonic and home once more.
Comments