Where the minutes follow each other, like blind children following the warm smell of honey

Time, time, time.

No matter how much you think about it, you can think some more and then some more. And still understand nothing at all. Does it go in lines, does it go in circles? Is there a way to stop it? How did it even start?

Do you think there are other kinds of time?

Ones that have different colours, and different smells, and different ways of marching on? Do you think Times get tired? Of just moving on and on? So desperate for a pause, a break, a wish that will never be granted?

Who/what do you think forces Time? Or is that just too narrow a way to look at things, through the prism of free choice? Why is it so difficult to accept that some things just are. Some things just be.

On their own. Completely on their own.  No connection with anyone or anything.

But how is that possible? Surely everything and everyone is born out of something else? Surely.

.

When is the last time that you had to question something you believed was the absolute truth.

Absolute – like death – is far too decisive a term.

.

Listened to the Bare Naked Ladies. After a long, long time. And Duncan Sheikh, and I remembered how beautifully out-of-reach that Palthrow chick was. Some things (I suspect more than just “some”) are beautiful because they will never be yours. You know what I am saying. Cause without actually “having” it you can think about how beautiful it would be, and your imagination does not need to be chained down by reality.

That is often the way I see the relationship between imagination and reality. Imagination this slightly goofy, on and off hyperactive drooling dog. Blind. Completely fucking blind. But with an amazingly curious nose. Going here and there, sniffing there and that. And Reality, this big fucking heavy chain that is holding Ima down. Just holding the poor fucker down.

.

You think Time is like that. Bossy Time holding onto Freedom Time, pushing it down so that it only escapes every once in a while, bringing some sense of freedom, of not being held down.

So ephemeral.

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