andaghost's Journal

we're used to bottling time, hours of music in a little box, instant noodles packaged with their minutes and seconds still fresh, the walk from the door to the garbage which can be taken at any time and, therefore, is out of time, modular, removable. That anything can be returned we take for granted, things are given one day and regiven the next, precious seconds allotted to us from an ancient dispenser, or maybe sprinkled on us from above like fish food. But then there is time that moves whether we want it to or not. The garbage, left behind too long, starts to fester. Now it's too late. Time which moves without us. As when the first cracked leaves skid down the tarmac. And you smell it in the air. It's the world's time, moving independent of our time. Like the stately clock face disregarding the momentary clicks and whistles of the cuckou, the dancers, the animatronic ballerina. You know some seasons last for ages, some drip by, some hide under the new ones and reappear, the same season in different years with the same memories. And when the seasons change you get a glimpse, just a glimpse, of how little our minutes and seconds matter. The world is spinning on her own. She is turning on her side in her sleep. We can see, just for a moment, both the mechanics and the facade. How they move together, machine or animal, great unworldly clock full of pretty dirt.