It’s 11:06 in all directions.
When it (life) started out, all was dandy. Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. And then I could tell. “I can tell the time. The time! Ask me the time, ask me the time. Someone.Ask.Me.The.Time.”
Poor bastard.
At the center of childhood’s cuckoodom is a sense of timelessness. A bottomless freedom. A stupid trust. A love begat from God’s belief in us. It’s the closest we may have gotten to immortality. To beauty. To truth.
What is time but a reminder of death. Or how long you have been in a Zoom meeting, which is kinda the same thing
This isn’t about being in a hurry, or about the pacy nature of the world, or about our obsession with productivity. Because I just checked and I seem to have written about all that shit already. This is about our helplessness in the face of it all. This is about the droning angst lurching at us to measure our lives, amidst the heart-palpitating shortness of it all—the feeling that someone is waiting for you all the time and that you must hurry up—hurry up. Go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go.
And you go.
And there’s no one.
We have devolved in our understanding of time. It’s why we somehow manage to both half-ass and overdo everything. You can’t let all that overthinking go to waste. There’s a dust of disquiet that now follows in the wake of our most leisurely hours. Every moment is a fatalism that oscillates between everything you are not doing and the pointlessness in the things you have, in fact, done.
Toxic masculinity jerks off to toxic productivity. Let’s address the wireless-earphone-wearing butt plugs with the don’t-waste-my-time mien on their faces for a moment.
Hey dipshit. You are not as important as you think you are. You could die now and so little will change. What you call improvement is a constant reminder of the things left undone, so you never have to live with the things you did. What you call life is an interval between your regrets and worries. You are an escape unto yourself, in a race up your own arse. Explains why you are full of shit. You are time’s pussy whipped bitch. No one is going to remember you. Wanna know why? They don’t want to waste their time, that’s why.
That felt good.
The frequent reminders from nature aren’t about your insignificance. It’s not about its asserting dominance over you. It’s a reminder of time. That everyone gets a finite sum. That despite that, nature doesn’t hold back on its infinite miracles. It’s why you can’t count some people’s life in years because they distort the meaning of time. When you are around them, everything feels infinite, even if they only lived briefly. It is the only immortality there is, and to get a glimpse of that is the only forever there is. Okay, fine: love. Paradise.
Here’s prolly what happened in the Garden of Eden: Adam and Eve got into an argument and Adam told Eve to stop wasting his time. Faaaaaaakkkkkk, bro; you had a higher chance of staying in paradise if you’d called her a pig. God heard what happened cze you know and said, “get the heck out of my backyard, and here’s an apple for the pig you just roasted.”
Okay, let’s talk about me for a moment.
You think this is fun for me? This gaping into space, for hours. Inventing new ways to be crass. The embarrassment at the number of hours that go into this. I dread Sundays because it’s my day of ‘actual’ writing. And I don’t know what has come of it. It’s not that I don’t care. It’s that I don’t want to know. I am not making the same mistake that flung me out of childhood’s paradise. That’s why I am still here, so the mystery remains unanswered.
Writing is a rebellion against time.
I am only here for the timeless, bottomless stupidity of it all.
To be able to see the funniness in the rest of the days and my intense, somewhat nauseous scurry toward a self that can tell time.
For six days: Go, go, go, go, go, go.
And so I go.
Into the seventh.
And there’s no one.
If the universe had a heart, it would beat truth & beauty truth & beauty truth & beauty. The Beauty is unveiled when you accept the truth: That there is no forever, not even for nature, and the meaning of Beauty is to live like there is.
Meditations 