That’s the whole point of it. Wasting time changes the nature of time. And the heart is stilled.
– Rose Tremain, The Gustav Sonata
359,160 hours. That’s how long it’s taken me. An elliptical trip I keep repeating around the source of most everything. But I’m not steering this vessel. I’d be hard pressed to get off it even if I wanted to. Do I want to? Honestly, the time passes so quickly I’m not even counting. Each moment is supersaturated with mysteries I could spend a lifetime unraveling. If you peel the onion that is me, you’ll find nothing at the center. If I’m incinerated into ash, it will be the same ash left behind by a burnt log. What is this to you? What is this to me? I can’t say. I started off with the premise that this was all building toward something. To be neatly wrapped up by the shimmery bow of aggregate knowledge. But it’s an unraveling. Each successive picture snaps from behind a lens accumulating scratches and smudges. The order once held by these snapshots effaced by the slip of the hand, scattering the narrative across these well-worn floors. That’s my history now face-up/face-down. 359,160 hours.