This, andÂ
âTime is like wax, dripping from a candle flame. In the moment, it is molten and falling, with the capability to transform into any shape. Then the moment passes, and the wax hits the tabletop, and solidifies into the shape it will always be. It becomes the past, a solid, single record of what happened, still holding in its wild curves and contours the potential of every shape it could have held.
It is impossible, no matter how blessed you are by luck or the government or some remote, invisible deity gently steering your life with hands made of moonlight and wind, it is impossible not to feel a little sad looking at that bit of wax, that bit of the past. It is impossible not to think of all the wild forms that wax now will never take.
Whatâs the point?â you ask.â
Why bother?â you say.
âOh, Cecil,â you cry. âOh, Cecil.â
But then you remember, I remember, that we are even now in another bit of molten wax. We are in a moment and it is still falling, still volatile, and we will never be anywhere else. We will always be in that most dangerous, most exciting, most possible time of all: the now, where we never can know what shape the next moment will take.
Stay tune for⊠well, letâs just find out together, shall we?â â
are, quite probably, the two things that make the passage of time and an accumulation of trauma most tolerable for me, and theyâre both from the same podcast.
snowghoul
prguitarman
andulkaphoto
gracieabrams
vaporwave
