The time that hurts us
It’s like time has hurt me, I tell you. Or maybe it’s just the heat that weighs down my days. I find myself endlessly watching the clouds. If they are only moving, they end up coming back to the same shapes, puffed up like foam. Sometimes the sky is clear, occasionally grey, like a tornado, but the cumulus clouds take over at the slightest opportunity.
Am I in pain? No, it is my thought that stretches through the opening of the hours. In our tenuous vision of reality, time appears as multiple wounds that freeze into possible memories. The mind finds its account there, escapes again and again, eternally young and valiant. What a paradox to see the accumulation of scars wrinkling our face and hands, softening our skin at the wrong moments while our neurons celebrate, undressed like the unceasing orgasm of willing adolescents.
My father confessed to us last week, looking at the photos I had taken of him, that he didn’t like to see himself old. This touched and educated me. Our looks remain unchanged, beads or diamond pearls, whose prism never tires of peeling away the light. It is said that the universe is consciousness and that it reveals itself in each of us. But I do not understand then that it takes so much effort to know, nor this blindness which makes us regret the complexion of our youth, curse the spots on our skin.
If we are the holographic sum of the universe, why don’t we see the arithmetic? Because of a fall? That’s what the Bible and other fables tell us. What do we really know? Why are we born without vision and later lie? My African friend said to me that God helps the poor. I told him that if this were the case, there would be no poor people, and he would not be praying that his house would not collapse in the slightest wind. This God, I believe, was never born, never existed except in our fantasies of discovering the light.
We are perhaps the children of a force that exceeds our understanding. Quantum science unveils little by little the veil of this strange world. So be it. There is a catch. Humanity would be at a crossroads of something, ready to make a logarithmic jump towards who knows where. The times are into Akasha, the zero-field, while the planet is choking on the methane of our excrement.
I am willing to accept this; I am willing to conceive that I can travel the world in one minute of my time. If I glimpse even a glimmer of reality, time will still flog my senses, suck my desire to live.
Is there no true answer and youthfulness but the silent breathing of our solitary thought? Do we stop falling when we keep time silent?
