“The tragedy of this world is that no one is happy, whether stuck in a time of pain or of joy. The tragedy of this world is that everyone is alone. For a life in the past cannot be shared with the present. Each person who gets stuck in time gets stuck alone.”
I have seen this person. He spends a great deal of time caught in this world. When he looks in the mirror, he always sees the same reflection. He ages and never ages. He is eight-years-old , and the other kids tell him that he sucks at baseball, that he is too skinny to play, that the coach puts the scorebook down when he gets up to bat, because why bother calculating the average of an average loser. He hears them chant even when he is 44, puts on his gear, and gets on his new racing bike. He has spent the year getting in shape at the gym, swimming at the Y, and now embarks on a 20 mile ride. He hears those boys laugh at him as he peddles up the hill. A women dressed in similar gear rides past him, and he wonders if she can tell he is a fraud. He peddles faster and does not stop until he reaches 20 miles, and heads for home. Though he makes that ride three times a week, the boy continues to get up to the plate. He see himself swing and miss – even though the ball went over the fence long ago.
“In a world in which time is a circle, every handshake, every kiss, every birth, every word, will be repeated precisely.”
The days blur together. Alarm rings, gets up. Gets dressed, eats, out the door by seven. School starts 7:45, blocks 1,2,3,4,5 follow. Work. Homework. Sleep. Unbenonst is she to the pink sunrise that breaks through the trees as the alarm rings. The gentle dew creating art streaming on the windshield on the way to school. Golden leaves careening from the tall trees outside the windows, just to the left of the white boards. The calm darkening of the sky framing the day as it closes. The twinkling beacons of stars shining down on the closed curtains. She wakes as the night turns to day, the closed curtains peeled back just a bit, enough that the pink sky projects onto the sleepy face peering out, seeing the world as if it is the first time. The day, a new day, that brings wonders yet to be tapped into, dawns on her. The fading stars twinkiling as if they are winking to her. If only she had been taught how to grap this, to make the most of this. The alarm rings.
“For while the movements of people are unpredictable, the movement of time is predictable. While people can be doubted, time cannot be doubted. While people brood, time skips ahead without looking back.”
It is time for her friend’s birthday party. Her mother swears it starts at 12 but she knows it began at 11. She listens and wraps the present at 11:30 and puts a ribbon in her hair at 11:45. She then walks in embarrassingly late, and notices that the candles have already been lit and the song has already been sung. The other girls ask her why she came so late, they say she missed out on all the fun. She cries. She learns the consequences of time, and the faults of trust. She begins to set her own alarm clocks and realizes that tardiness causes her stress. She wakes up before anyone else does, and cannot escape the feeling that she is always behind, missing something. She annoys people. Why is she always so early, so prepared, so on time? They wonder why she is so obsessed with logistics. She doesn't want to miss another birthday.
"In time, people have forgotten the reason why higher is better... They tolerate the cold of the mountains by habit and enjoy discomfort as part of their breeding. They have convinced themselves that this air is good for their bodies, and, following that logical, have gone on spare diets, refusing all but the most gossamer food. At length, the populace have become thin like the air, bony, old before their time."
He has done everything he can to try to follow the script. Enroll in the most time-consuming courses, participate in the most time-enveloping extracurriculars, strive to spend even more time in those activities through "leadership positions," do the most time-exhausting workouts, etc. It is supposed to be for his future- so he might have a shot at getting into a very time-expensive college. He's been told that only the programs that consume every last bit of his time over the next four years can get him into one of those 100+ hour work week jobs that he is supposed to desire. From there, he is told that he will be in a good position to go back to a time-consuming school for his MBA. Sometimes, he feels like he is slogging through his youth, in chase of a dream always a thousand steps farther than he can walk. But he continues because know of no other path. He is told the skills he has right now are not enough for him to succeed in the "real world." That he has not spent enough of his time yet. But even as he reads this paragraph on how he spends his time he feels that something is missing. Of course, he forgot about how he must spend a little extra time every night worrying about what he will do if he isn't able to find a school that demands enough of his time.
“Who would fare better in this world of fitful time? Those who have seen the future and live only one life? Or those who have not seen the future and wait to live life? Or those who deny the future and live two lives?”
She applies to many different colleges. Her parents encourage her to dream of going wherever she wishes, and so she allows herself to dream. But she knows what will happen. She dreams of going far away, living somewhere she has not been before, experiencing a new place. In an attempt to deny her future, she plays into her fantasies. She spends hours imagining the life she will live across the country. But she knows her future. She will go to the same school her mother went to, the same school her mother’s brother went to, the same school her grandparents and their siblings went to. Despite her mother’s reassurances that she does not have to follow the same path, she knows differently. For one reason or another, she will not go where she most wishes. She will try to forget that this is inevitable, and tell her friends and family that she will not follow the same route her family took, but she knows the future, and knows that it is inescapable.
"For the elderly, time darts by much too quickly. They yearn to capture a single minute at the breakfast table drinking tea, or a moment when a grandchild is stuck getting out of her costume, or an afternoon when the winter sun reflects off the snow and floods the music room with light."
He sits quietly. Nobody ever expected much more out of him, considering his background, and so nobody dared asked why he sat there. While others paused and gazed through the masses of people, yearning to find themselves a friend among the sea of strangers, he sat. Inert. Unfeeling. He watches them think about sitting there, but they choose to sit elsewhere. He feels a brief streak of inexplicable sadness crush him, and he accepts this. These neurons of his, they were firing the wrong hormone, and now he felt numbness overcome all sensory input. He may as well be a fine marble sculpture, serving as something of a reminder of the importance of friends and the transient nature of one's own livelihood. He doesn't get attached to these faces anymore, he doesn't look into their eyes for some sort of redemption. He has worked so hard for this, and he cherishes the cold plastic table that is now his and his alone.
“If a person holds no ambitions in this world, he suffers unknowingly. If a person holds ambitions, he suffers knowingly, but very slowly.”
She used to want to be a doctor, like the ones she would see on TV always saving lives, becoming a hero. But what she didn’t see was the the endless amount of time that was put in. That it took a trillion moments to finally boil down to the one moment it took to be a hero. She wondered if it was worth it. It was her dream, but what if she wasted all her time on it to fail. She could picture it in her head, spending all nighters studying to get into the best medical school, denying her friends invites to parties, spending all her waking hours working to afford such a big investment. Finally after a grueling workload, double the amount of time her peers spent at school and hundreds of thousands of dollars in loans she stands in front of the operating table and comes to the realization that she does not like blood. In fact it makes her quite dizzy. She drops the scalpel and instead of saving a life punctures an organ, ending a life. She has failed. She has spent her prime years gearing up for something that was wrong. She made the wrong choice, the suffering was for nothing. At such a young age, she thinks what else could she be? Maybe a stay at home mom? She decides yes, this will be it. But then she pictures it again. Proud to watch her kids grow up, Henry goes off to Harvard Law and Britt becomes an Oscar nominated actress. How perfect. But soon they start their own lives, they don't need her anymore. She is left with nothing. She realizes this is not what she wanted. She has nothing to live for. She made the wrong choice, the suffering just now comes to the surface.
Kaby Maheswaran “For in this world, time has three dimensions, like space.
A girl sits quietly in the back row of her class, listening to others talk. She has things to say, but she mutters them to herself, occasionally jotting them down in her notebook. Their talking about south indian culture, something she’s lived with all her life. But she still doesn’t raise her hand, for she can’t imagine what she would say. She would say something stupid, something that leaves the classroom silent, so she stays quiet and keeps her thoughts about culture to herself. In the second world, the girl sitting in the back row of her class actually raises her hand to say something. She speaks out of impulse, rambling on about random ideas. Here and there she would pause, confused on how to continue. Eventually she stops abruptly and doesn’t say anymore. As the class continues the discussion, she decides that she will never speak in class again. In the third world, the girl sitting in the back row prepares herself to speak. She writes down an entire script in her notebook of what she would say. She would talk about how growing up in a Sri Lankan home shaped her views. She would explain how it made her stand out among her peers, making her see everything with a different set of lens. She would share her childhood experiences with the class, where disney channel was a strange concept. She would talk well, with everything clearly written down. Finally she would end the comment with a concise conclusion. She would share all of this with a faint voice, but would still share with the class.
“...their mechanical movements and sounds synchronized exactly by the turning of gears, which, in turn, are inspired by the perfection of time” (26).
It’s heavy and cold on her wrist. She’s determined to wear it. For appearances. She doesn’t really know how to read it. Only knows that it contains numbers, and two lines that seem to move quite slowly.
It’s later. She wears it now for school. She doesn’t trust the one on the wall. It doesn’t move fast enough. She likes to have her own. To be exact. She walks in the halls, timing the four minutes she has left. She takes it off on the weekends.
It’s summer. She teaches now, and wears it constantly. She needs to know when kids are coming in for lessons. The one on the pool deck wall doesn’t work. The chlorine damages hers, but she keeps it on anyway. The band is worn, but the lines keeps moving. When she takes it off, she feels empty.
They sit with their backs to the land, gazing out onto the endless horizon. The boy with his head in the clouds and his feet on the ground asks her why. She responds that she needs it for her job. He asks her to take it off. To not worry about it in the summer. Summer is liberating, boundless, unconfined. She uses her job as an excuse. She needs it. She feels stressed when she cannot look down and feel centered by the precision of time. He shakes his head. They stare out into the endless ocean, until the beep signals 6:00.
She wears it to bed, and lies awake. The one on the wall ticks, tocks. Ticks, tocks. The one on her wrist beeps on each passing hour. It’s lighter on her wrist now, but the lines move more quickly. Sosha
“No one sits under a tree with a book, no one gazes at the ripples on a pond, no one lies in thick grass in the country. No one is still” (69).
She goes through the week like a car on a highway; getting up in the morning, speeding through her day, and sleeping at night; she is continuously driving forward for what seems like a perpetual amount of time. Her days, just like everyone elses’, are filled to minute, leaving no time to slow down or stop. She goes from one thing to the next to the next to the next without looking at anything she passes; her eyes are only focused on the next task that is in front of her for once the week starts, there is too much to get done and too little time. She also hears about everyone’s lives; like hers, they are all packed so tightly with work and activities and everything that needs to be done by a certain time. She looks frantically around her, should I be doing that? They have already finished and I haven’t even started! Was that due today? I don’t have time to do that. She goes faster and faster, desperately trying to get through everything that needs to be done and seeing nothing but the time she has left to do it. She rushes through everything in her schedule doing one thing after the other until it becomes too much. She just stops. She looks out at everyone around her, all still rushing and moving from one thing to another, continuously feeling stressed, unable to notice anything else around them. The girl goes outside, looks up, and sees the calmness of the luminous moon and the clarity of the brilliant stars that spot the sky, each radiating with a certain deepness and mystery no one else rushing by can notice. The girl has finally stopped to see the world around her, and for once experiences a faint, but noticeable feeling of peace.
“The Laters and the Nows” It is evening. A boy sits with his friends in the back seat as his father drives. He gazes lazily out the window as cozy, snow blanketed neighborhoods roll silently past. His father turns a corner and a wall of shining snow banks begins to flow across his vision. The boy looks up to see a field of glossy white snow resting undisturbed, its unbroken surface extending off into the night like a lake of porcelain. The boy thought about how he and his friends had spent the entire day inside, and how much he wanted to go out and thrash around in that field, to build forts there and wage snow war with his comrades, to ride down that low hill with the sled he had in the trunk. The boy remembered his father had told him of a time that he and his friends had paraded around in the winter woods for hours until they were too cold to do it anymore. It was warm memory that had lingered in his father's thoughts for years. But the boy knew him and his friends couldn’t do the same. It was getting dark and his friends parents would expect them home soon. He didn’t even know if they would want to go out there if he suggested it. As the boy pondered this, his vision focused, and he realized that the vehicle had passed the field anyway. The boy glances back, watching plain of snow grow smaller and smaller until it was absorbed by the shade of the evening without a sound. The boy settles back in his seat and allowed his mind to drift to other things. He knew there would be plenty of time to make memories in the future.
It is evening. A teenager sits at his cluttered desk and works. His phone buzzes abruptly and he picks it up. His friend asks if he would want to join him and some others to go bowling on the weekend. The teenager considers this notion, but quickly discards it. This week has been busy, just like the last few. He could forego his studies for a brief time to spend time with his friends, but he always sectioned off the ends of busy weeks to preemptively tackle his future school work. He would sleep a lot better if he stuck to his established routine. He tells his friend that he might go with him some other time, sets down the phone, and gets back to work.
It is evening. A young man sits alone in his small dorm, watching a film he hasn’t seen in awhile. His next door neighbor loudly throws open his door and invites him to a party on campus that night. The young man feels annoyed. He has just finished a draining group project and wants spend some time alone to enjoy himself. He probably won't know anyone at the party and needs to be sharp for an early morning class tomorrow. The young man politely declines and the neighbor turns down the hall saying that it's his choice. The young man settles back into the movie. He knows there will be plenty more parties to attend before he leaves college.
It is evening. A man sits in the comfort of his livingroom, his young children playing on the carpet. He feels contented enough. He has lived a modest life, enjoying the ride without making too many waves. His son tugs on his sleeve and he turns to him. His son asks him what he was like when he was younger. The man thinks its a simple question but as he searches for an answer something grows in him. He reaches back to the stories of childhood adventure and excitement his father told him then recoils, seeing his own life too clearly. A heavy feeling hangs rotting in his gut. He knows that he has thrown away something valuable before he knew he had it. But his mind only touches on the this realization for a moment as it snaps back to the present. He looks to his expectant son and tells him he had a fine youth. He doesn't tell him anything more as he has nothing more to tell. His son looks slightly dissatisfied and turns back to continue playing. The man settles back in his chair. He tries to grasp at whatever he had realized before, but finds that it has evaporated into thin air. The shrugs it off. There would be plenty of time to think about it later.
“But what is the past? Could it be, the firmness of the past is just illusion? Could the past be a kaleidoscope, a pattern of images that shift with each disturbance of a sudden breeze, a laugh, a thought?” (133).
The buzz went off and she lost the last game of the season again. She didn’t play much, but as a member of the team, she was bitter. Afterwards, she left early because she couldn’t stand to look others in the eye. Their stares silently cursed her. That night the sky was a black canvas against the piercing lights that filled the sweaty air. Without warning the ball hit her back. Silence. No one said anything. They continued the game. The counting down was 15. And they ran past her without passing her the ball. They hollered “pass, pass, pass”. Just not to her. The watch read 7:00. She waited outside staring at the black hole above her. No one talked to her. The memory has become her life. When she wakes up in the morning, she is the girl who sat on the bench. When she passes them in the hallway, she knows they see her failures, her inabilities to be a basketball star. She glances at her feet and looks away. When she comes home, she stays in her bed under the blanket as she replays that night over and over again. She is the girl who could not play.
"A mushy, brown peach is lifted from the garbage and placed on the table to pinken. It pinkens, it turns hard, it is carried in a shopping sack to the grocer's, put on a shelf, removed and crated, returned to the tree with pink blossoms. In this world, time flows backward" (79).
He is sitting at his desk, nothing but the faint tap, tap, tapping of his pencil to be heard by any outside intruder. Staring at the endless equations in front of him, knowing they are easy but wondering how he got here, to this moment, when the only thing that was important was getting an A on his trig test. He sighs, the pencil is placed into his backpack along with his math homework. The bag is zipped up and he walks out of his room, down the stairs and kisses his mother before putting on his shoes and driving to school. He goes through the motions until coming home and brushing his teeth and rolling into bed, another long night and morning ahead of him. He does this for days on end until he is four years old once more. He sits at his desk, nothing but the faint scribble, scribble, scribble of his crayons, and his mothers carefree humming to be heard by any outside intruder. Proudly staring at the endless completed coloring pages ahead of him, knowing they are his and knowing each stroke contains his past, present, and future, all melded into one beautiful calligraphy of color. He exhales with glee, the pink crayon is placed in its bin, the coloring book left with ease on the table. Chair pushed in, he skips down the stairs and kisses his mother before having his favorite grilled cheese and going for the first time to school. He lives, breathing in and out each moment until coming home, having a big bowl of Lucky Charms and being awoken by his mother, another quick and loving night and day ahead of him. This goes on for who knows how long until he is back, and he remembers once more the feeling of freedom.
“For in springtime the populace become sick of the order in their lives.” She is a mess. She may not seem like it from the outside, but she is frazzled and strung out almost constantly. Her homework is done in a rushed frenzy so she can get to sleep before midnight. She accidentally double-books herself when she makes plans for a friday night. There are scars, cuts and bruises on her body for wiping out and taking hits while playing sports. When she takes a sip of her water bottle in school, she’ll dribble water all over herself. She’ll spend an hour on a homework assignment, and realize five minutes before its due she did it wrong. But even though she knows she may not have it all together all the time, she knows that life is beautiful because it is messy. If it were orderly all the time, there would be nothing to it. Every so often, she may try to fix things and tidy up, but she always goes back to the way things were before. It’s all just more fun that way.
“The world will end on 26 September 1907. Everyone knows it.
The world will end on 23 October 2018. Everyone knows it. Six months before the end every kid stops attending school. It’s not that the teachers have gone on strike or the power has gone out or there is too much snow on the ground. Everything continues as normal except the children who, knowing that the world will end soon, do not see the point in learning any more. In one house two friends spend the entire day playing video games. They go to sleep and wake up the next morning only play video games for the entire day again. They only stop gaming to eat cake, ice cream, and doughnuts. They become fat but their mother and their doctor do not mind. There is another boy who in his new freetime decides to pursue his passion for cooking that he never had the time for. One day is dedicated to a decadent chocolate cake of five layers which the boy shares with all his friends. Another day is spent in the kitchen roasting a savory brisket over the course of the whole day. A third day is spent out in nature picking fresh apples that will be used for an apple pie. Every day the boy tried a new recipe and tried to perfect his craft. Not surprisingly, a large portion of high school, college students, and adults take to an extreme level of drug and alcohol use to either to cope with the impending end or because they always wanted to try. Four teenagers lie strung out on drugs on the front lawn of a house in the middle of the day. A police car passes by but no one is taken off to jail. What good would arresting these teens do if the world will end soon anyway? Many die preemptively as a result of their drug use. One month before the end everybody quits their job. One man decides to spend his days reading books he never had time to read. However, the books quickly bore the man and, fearful of the end, he decides to take his own life. The death of the man seems to have a shockwave effect on the entire world. On top of the hundreds of millions already passed from the drugs and alcohol, murder and suicide rates skyrocket. Many, like the man, decide they would rather go out on their own terms rather than witness the end. One day before the end and humanity has been erased. The world goes on without the presence of humans, just the chirping birds, the autumn air, and the orange leaves. Then comes 23 October 2018, but there is no end. The world continues on along with the apple orchard and the tall grass that makes up the lawn those teenagers would lay on. Yes, turns out there was no end, but humans, not being able to accept their abrupt end, brought about their own destruction, and that was the end.
"This is a world of changed plans, of sudden opportunities, of unexpected visions. For in this world, time flows not evenly but fitfully and, as consequence, people receive fitful glimpses of the future." She was dressed in a pale pink satin gown, with white flowers made of fabric accentuating the braids and curls in her hair. They had an hour or so before the party, but everyone was already in tuxedos and white dresses waiting in line to have their pictures taken with her. Every few minutes, a different friend approached and posed while flashes went off. One smiling, the other "funny." Eventually, he joined her in front of the stone architecture and smiled for the camera. Then, he got down on one knee as he held her hand. She threw her head back with laughter to draw attention away from the cherry tint of her face. They both knew there had been a connection growing throughout the year but the timing was wrong and they stayed "just friends." One year later, she was still falling in love with him but the timing was wrong, again. Five months after that, they kissed for the first time and she was head over heels. Another year passed, they were even more in love than before. By now, she knew she had, all along, been meeting her future -- him.
“How could she know that time will begin again, that she will be born again, will study at the gymnasium again, will show her paintings at the gallery in Zurich, will again meet her husband in the small library… How could she know?”
It is midnight and she is still up studying. It seems like it is a long night ahead of her. A debilitating migraine has accompanied her throughout the past month or so, and is now getting stronger. As the words were jumbling together and no progress was being made, she decided to quit working and went to sleep. The world seemed to be collapsing around her as she realized that, tomorrow, all her past efforts will end up meaningless and ridiculous because she is going to school unprepared for her assignments. By the time the alarm clock rings, her nerves had already woken her up. She begins the day uneasy and scared. After what seemed like eternity, the school day ended and has not gone nearly as bad as she anticipated. As a weight is lifted off her shoulders, she decided to hang out with a long time friend. When they are together, they make jokes that only the two of them would understand and they die of laughter. Now, she is filled with hope and feels as everything is possible. The worries of the beginning of the day seemed so miniscule, so far away, as the only thing that mattered was being in the moment, and being happy. As the day came to an end, she went home and slept. The day she stressed over and felt was never going to end, actually ended. Her situation is not unique, but was shared by many. It will continue to be shared by many. In her own life, it happened several times before and will happen again in the future. Another day will pass, the sun will rise again. The birds will sing as she wakes up. She will laugh again until her stomach hurts. She will travel and see her family again. She will sing at the top of her lungs to the radio with her friends in the car. She will paint new paintings. She will meet new people. She will see new places. She will see another sunrise and another sunset. Of course, more bad moments will continue to arise, but it will only make her appreciate the good ones even more. As everyday passes, she will grow stronger and happier. With every new sunshine, she will realize that everything is possible.
“Imagine a world in which there is no time. Only images. A child at the seashore, spellbound by her first glimpse of the ocean. A woman standing on a balcony at dawn, her hair down, he loose sleeping siks, he bare feet, her lips”.
A faint purple glow above bare trees through square windows. The glimpse of a long wooden bridge in the thick of the woods, neat in the center of the dead branches that litter the forest floor. A thick white comforter and blanket, soft and disheveled in the morning light. A young girl with wavy brown hair, freckles and dark circles under her eyes. A marble countertop, grey and littered with hand creams and soap and toothpaste. The reflection of tired blue eyes. A pile of black clothing, abandoned late at night in an upstairs hall on its way to the laundry room. An energetic puppy wondering why her family isn’t quite as excited for the day ahead as she is. A yellow glow emitting from the small grey house, a warmth within that contrasts its surroundings. The waft of an apple-scented candle- fake but fresh and clean-smelling. Four silver chairs, one left empty. A man in a blue striped shirt and a suit jacket balancing coffee and keys and searching for something he knows he has forgotten. A pair of wire-rimmed glasses, left on a coffee table next to an open book. A yellow bus, stopping quickly at the house but not finding any students ready to depart from the comfort of their puppy and the warmth of their living room. A navy backpack, then grey, then pink, each one nearly as large as its owner. A cloud of breath interrupting the silence of the air. A driveway caked with leaves and pine needles and two cars gradually slipping off the layer of frost that has surrounded them.
"Events, once happened, lose reality, alter with a glance, a storm, a night. In time, the past never happened.”
He lived in a constant state of fear. For every action, movement, or form of discourse, he dreaded that he would do something that would result in a feeling of regret in the future. His paranoia led him to think that as he walked by his peers in the halls of his high school, they judged every aspect of his existence: the way he looked, spoke, stood, dressed, walked, and so on and so on. His suspicion that society scrutinized him in every shape, way, and form possible led him to alienate himself from the community. Rarely did he engage in any sort of social interaction with individuals outside of his immediate family, and as a result, his voice withered into an echo. He feared that if he were to become a part of his community, he would do or say something that would result in utter embarrassment, and he would dwell on it for the rest of eternity. His suspicions, though, were undermined by a lack of acumen. In reality, he was never criticized by his actions, but rather his decision to remain isolated as an individual. They mocked him for the fact that he was and remained an outsider, but never for an instance of social awkwardness. The paranoia that was fueled by the thought that others judged him for his actions led to what he so deeply feared in the first place: public humiliation. He suffered as a result of his tendency to dwell on a past that had never existed; he was alone.
"A person who cannot imagine the future is a person who cannot contemplate the results of his own actions. Some are thus paralyzed into inaction." Some, seeing no future, imagine no consequences. They revel in the freedom from responsibility to their future selves, abandoning pretense of epicurianism in favor of hedonistic pleasure. Their world ends every instant, the first and last memory of their existence the immunity from the future. They do not learn, change, or develop. In a little cafe on Via della Citta, a young man sits with a coffee in a small glass cup. He has been stilly watching the steam. He has never not ordered this coffee, never not specified its clear vessel. All he has ever known is this moment, alone at the marble table. It is unclear if this is every morning or none. He doesn't care. He doesn't drink the coffee or get up, for he is waiting to do nothing. The steam keeps curling off the rim of the glass, and in the absence of thought, the man hears rain.
“Imagine a world in which there is no time. Only images.” As pharmacists, chemists, people at cafes, young children, move about their lives unaware of all time there will be an abrupt stop to all movement. There will be a crack. The images and memories of things that have not yet occurred will split into three different versions with three differing actions and results. For this is a world where time shifts and morphs like a parasite taking over a host. This sensory overdrive causes many to focus in on one of the scenarios with an eerie feeling of truth and reality yet distortion. Others will be unable to perceive the memories as anything more than insanity, falling victim to the paralyzing fear of changing time. Those able to remain open to differing results though it causes a crippling anxiety will fall in line with one of the versions of time.
“If a person holds no ambitions in this world, he suffers unknowingly. If a person holds ambitions, he suffers knowingly, but very slowly.”
The days, months, years pass, and the time blurs together like a seemingless blob. There are two types of people that suffer under the illusion of time, and within the two some that crossover aimlessly. The first person is haunted by going through the motions of completing tasks without knowing the path they want to take. They don’t know what that their hard work without a goal leads to their own suffering, stuck in a place between the stages of their life. The second person knows what they want, and struggles everyday of their lives to work towards it. This person has drive and ambition, yet they still struggle when they see their efforts turn into failures and realize that they may have tried to reach too high. This person is in eternal turmoil, suffering for their whole life to try to achieve something just out of their reach. Then is the person who crosses over. Pressured by society, they feel a need to set their ambitions before they know who they are. They then struggle, as the second person, to achieve their goals. However they soon realize their dream is not worth the struggle, and convert into the first person. They repeat this process endlessly, doing what their society tells them to do, never finding their own ambitions.
"Imagine a world where these is no time. Only images." (57)
An untied shoe. A paint can being opened. The smell of cinnamon. A torn ticket stub. Orange light shining under a door. Two friends eating bagels. Laughter ricocheting off walls. Unbrushed hair. A girl asleep using her textbook as a pillow. The taste of banana bread on Sunday morning. Nail polish flaking off. A scooter gathering dust in a garage. A man sneezing in the shower. A white and blue house on top of a hill. A group of kids gathered around a small brown dog. Shiny blue braces being tightened. Hair cascading down shoulders. A girl covering her mouth as she laughs. Secrets being told in the dark. The look on a face as they realize they can't go back. Lemon peels strewn on a counter. Light reflecting off marble. Raspberry popsicles melting in a bathtub. A blinking cursor on a blank page. Half written journal entries. Feathers suspended in mid air. A woman placing a necklace on her neck, the smell of her perfume in the air. Crickets chirping as dusk falls. A dog eared book page, stained with dirt. An artist meeting a writer. A trunk of letters sent years ago. A vase of flowers on a coffee table. A man raking his fingers through his thinning hair. Moths flocking to a glass door. A child squeezing a balloon. A marker rolling off a desk. Ripped paints taped together. A glass shatters on wood floors. Soft hands and callused fingers. A train with purple cars rushing past, a man holding a pizza box stops and stares. Chestnuts on the ground, cracked and crushed. Blackberries on the vine, sticky and sweet. A girl wearing mismatched socks, trying desperately to hide her frown. A boy reaches and touches the ceiling. The crackling of headphones as they are plugged into an old laptop. A bed with no sheets and four duvets. An unopened envelope. A key that belongs to no lock.
“For twenty years he has been the ideal friend to his friends, generous, interested, soft-spoken, affectionate. What could have happened?”
100 ways to lose a friend. The strategy behind it is simple, painful, but simple. He has thoughts that he shares sometimes, they end up dissipating, falling to the sunken part of himself. Substantial emotions are ignored, he wonders what they must think, not their perception of him, that has never mattered, but if they have ever cared. He’s lost, yet, there has not been a state any better, not one that suffices quite like this. He does not settle, he simply gives up, the tragedy of the commons. The time he spent ignored, the severity of the connection in greater focus. When his essence is poured into words, he isn’t drained, he isn’t anything for that matter, except someone who woefully attempts to communicate genuinely. Knowing, that it will always play out in this same distasteful matter, with the same distasteful people. Yet, he is the same, not always, but when he doesn’t feel like acting that part, he is a recluse, questioned, then forgotten.
"One cannot walk down an avenue, converse with a friend, enter a building, browse beneath the sandstone arches of an old arcade without meeting an instrument of time."
No one can escape from the clutch of an hour hand, outrun the ever-turning pace of a minute hand, ignore the truths that lie with each passing second. In this society of hours time is the new commodity; instead of buying loves of bread from the market on a street corner we pay the cashier behind the desk with minutes of our lives. A little girl playing hopscotch in the cool summer afternoon pays for her fun with an hour of her still young life. Time is everywhere. Time knows all. Time is God. What other force dictates so much of a person's habits, keeps them on the brink of a breakdown, teeters with their emotions so playfully and carefree, unknowing of the human effect it causes? From its ever-important presence in everything we do, it is natural that we create objects to obsessively keep track of our rapidly diminishing minutes. If there is any sense at all in the universe, it is that mankind track their progress from the time a little boy falls on his first bike and scrapes his knee, to the last time he hugs his son goodbye.
“What sense is there in continuing when one has seen the future?”
Something is always going to happen. It can either be good or bad, but the time viewed as still to come is always a guaranteed surprise. Regardless he attempts to guess the future as an attempt to gain knowledge and insight in order to know the future. But as he gains the knowledge, it seems to buffer a dull response. The thrill and surprise of the future have seemed to fade away. What was unknown is known and what was unexpected is expected. His excitement is now depression and his drive has dissipated into a sense of sorrow. To him the future is known, everything that is going to happen is no surprise. To him, time is linear with no outliers bound to a straight line which he knows of each point. There is no point to continue, the future is gone and the thrill to be surprised has vanished forever.
“...the populace become sick of the order in their lives.”
Order. One foot in front of the other. Day by day. 24 hours pass by again and again. Students sit in the classroom tapping their pencils, biting their nails, doodling on their notebooks trying to pass the time. One never really understands order until they are placed in a school setting. Sports, extracurriculars, homework, work, spending time with family, socializing with friends, all has to be done in order. Specific times for each so it can all fit into one day. Into 24 hours. Try to accomplish everything you can in 24 hours. But also getting the proper amount of sleep and exercise. Sometimes the order gets to be too much. What would happen if you went against the order? Everyone would be out of place. 24 hours would no longer be the time frame. Work would be forever changed. Sleep and rest could take over our lives. The world would be turned upside down and inside out. Is it worth the risk? Colleen McConnell
As she wakes up to the sound of her blarring alarm, all she can think about is how she wished it didn't go off. She reaches to turn it off, and knocks her thick glasses to the floor. Off goes the alarm, up come the glasses, and out of bed she goes. To the bathroom to poke contacts on her eyes, rub her face with soap, and scrub her teeth with minty freshness. She wishes that she could climb back into bed instead of continuing the day, but she knows that she must go to school, because that’s what she’s supposed to do. She must learn, write, compute, and slove, again and again. She doesn’t mind though, since she enjoys the friendly faces, and the kind teachers, and the special lunch lady who gives her extra pretzles. She doesn’t mind the repetativeness of the school year, and the repatativeness of the morning, or the repetative slaming of the alarm.
As she wakes up to the sound of her blarring alarm, all she can think about is how she wished it didn’t go off. She reaches to turn it off, and rolls off the bed doing so. She lands on her wrist on the way down. Off goes the alarm, down goes her body, and out comes her scream. Her sister rushes in, takes one look at the twisted hand, and runs back out to get her mother. A day begins and ends in a hospital bed. A broken Ulna and fractured Lunate, and torn Superficial Capsular Tissue. A day where she would have gotten extra pretzels turned into a day where she couldnt eat before her surgery. She wished that she had reached for her glasses first, that way she could have seen where to slam the alram.
As she wakes up to the sound of her blarring alarm, all she can think about is how she wished it didn’t go off. She reaches to turn it off, and embraces the silence that followed. She notices how warm her toes are, how the early rising sun emmits purple light through her windows, how lovely the early morning quiet is. She relishes in the heat of her own bed, stretches her arms up in front of her, and pulls the covers high over her head. Today was a day in which she would stay still for as long as she could, becuase time to her could be stopped and started instantaneously. And today was a day in which she wanted to sleep for a few more “minutes”.
“Who would fare better in this world of fitful time? Those who have seen the future and live only one life? Or those who have not seen the future and wait to live life? Or those who deny the future and live two lives?”
My Rendition:
He writes. The writing is regarded positively by some. Negatively by others. This does not affect him. He writes nevertheless. Some of his words blend together with other words to create new, intricate meanings that are cherished and appreciated, and others merely remain words. He dreams of his writing gaining recognition. Of people understanding the thoughts that run behind the mind of a writer and attempt to put themselves in the position of the penman. But this does not occur. Students stare at words, coerced into reading them for school essaywriting and assignments. Grandfathers stare at newspapers with dull countenances. Children stare at storybooks. All they do is stare. They never absorb. They do not have time to do so. Life moves quite rapidly. More rapid than one may think. And thus, amongst children's classes, and work, and school, and this and that, the book may remain in the hands of the reader, but never in his or her mind. This loop is inevitable. This loop is time. This loop is existence.
“The tragedy of this world is that no one is happy, whether stuck in a time of pain or of joy. The tragedy of this world is that everyone is alone. For a life in the past cannot be shared with the present. Each person who gets stuck in time gets stuck alone.”
ReplyDeleteI have seen this person. He spends a great deal of time caught in this world. When he looks in the mirror, he always sees the same reflection. He ages and never ages. He is eight-years-old , and the other kids tell him that he sucks at baseball, that he is too skinny to play, that the coach puts the scorebook down when he gets up to bat, because why bother calculating the average of an average loser. He hears them chant even when he is 44, puts on his gear, and gets on his new racing bike. He has spent the year getting in shape at the gym, swimming at the Y, and now embarks on a 20 mile ride. He hears those boys laugh at him as he peddles up the hill. A women dressed in similar gear rides past him, and he wonders if she can tell he is a fraud. He peddles faster and does not stop until he reaches 20 miles, and heads for home. Though he makes that ride three times a week, the boy continues to get up to the plate. He see himself swing and miss – even though the ball went over the fence long ago.
“In a world in which time is a circle, every handshake, every kiss, every birth, every word, will be repeated precisely.”
ReplyDeleteThe days blur together. Alarm rings, gets up. Gets dressed, eats, out the door by seven. School starts 7:45, blocks 1,2,3,4,5 follow. Work. Homework. Sleep. Unbenonst is she to the pink sunrise that breaks through the trees as the alarm rings. The gentle dew creating art streaming on the windshield on the way to school. Golden leaves careening from the tall trees outside the windows, just to the left of the white boards. The calm darkening of the sky framing the day as it closes. The twinkling beacons of stars shining down on the closed curtains. She wakes as the night turns to day, the closed curtains peeled back just a bit, enough that the pink sky projects onto the sleepy face peering out, seeing the world as if it is the first time. The day, a new day, that brings wonders yet to be tapped into, dawns on her. The fading stars twinkiling as if they are winking to her. If only she had been taught how to grap this, to make the most of this. The alarm rings.
“For while the movements of people are unpredictable, the movement of time is predictable. While people can be doubted, time cannot be doubted. While people brood, time skips ahead without looking back.”
ReplyDeleteIt is time for her friend’s birthday party. Her mother swears it starts at 12 but she knows it began at 11. She listens and wraps the present at 11:30 and puts a ribbon in her hair at 11:45. She then walks in embarrassingly late, and notices that the candles have already been lit and the song has already been sung. The other girls ask her why she came so late, they say she missed out on all the fun. She cries. She learns the consequences of time, and the faults of trust. She begins to set her own alarm clocks and realizes that tardiness causes her stress. She wakes up before anyone else does, and cannot escape the feeling that she is always behind, missing something. She annoys people. Why is she always so early, so prepared, so on time? They wonder why she is so obsessed with logistics. She doesn't want to miss another birthday.
Cat Weiner
"In time, people have forgotten the reason why higher is better... They tolerate the cold of the mountains by habit and enjoy discomfort as part of their breeding. They have convinced themselves that this air is good for their bodies, and, following that logical, have gone on spare diets, refusing all but the most gossamer food. At length, the populace have become thin like the air, bony, old before their time."
ReplyDeleteHe has done everything he can to try to follow the script. Enroll in the most time-consuming courses, participate in the most time-enveloping extracurriculars, strive to spend even more time in those activities through "leadership positions," do the most time-exhausting workouts, etc. It is supposed to be for his future- so he might have a shot at getting into a very time-expensive college. He's been told that only the programs that consume every last bit of his time over the next four years can get him into one of those 100+ hour work week jobs that he is supposed to desire. From there, he is told that he will be in a good position to go back to a time-consuming school for his MBA. Sometimes, he feels like he is slogging through his youth, in chase of a dream always a thousand steps farther than he can walk. But he continues because know of no other path. He is told the skills he has right now are not enough for him to succeed in the "real world." That he has not spent enough of his time yet. But even as he reads this paragraph on how he spends his time he feels that something is missing. Of course, he forgot about how he must spend a little extra time every night worrying about what he will do if he isn't able to find a school that demands enough of his time.
“Who would fare better in this world of fitful time? Those who have seen the future and live only one life? Or those who have not seen the future and wait to live life? Or those who deny the future and live two lives?”
ReplyDeleteShe applies to many different colleges. Her parents encourage her to dream of going wherever she wishes, and so she allows herself to dream. But she knows what will happen. She dreams of going far away, living somewhere she has not been before, experiencing a new place. In an attempt to deny her future, she plays into her fantasies. She spends hours imagining the life she will live across the country. But she knows her future. She will go to the same school her mother went to, the same school her mother’s brother went to, the same school her grandparents and their siblings went to. Despite her mother’s reassurances that she does not have to follow the same path, she knows differently. For one reason or another, she will not go where she most wishes. She will try to forget that this is inevitable, and tell her friends and family that she will not follow the same route her family took, but she knows the future, and knows that it is inescapable.
"For the elderly, time darts by much too quickly. They yearn to capture a single minute at the breakfast table drinking tea, or a moment when a grandchild is stuck getting out of her costume, or an afternoon when the winter sun reflects off the snow and floods the music room with light."
ReplyDeleteHe sits quietly. Nobody ever expected much more out of him, considering his background, and so nobody dared asked why he sat there. While others paused and gazed through the masses of people, yearning to find themselves a friend among the sea of strangers, he sat. Inert. Unfeeling. He watches them think about sitting there, but they choose to sit elsewhere. He feels a brief streak of inexplicable sadness crush him, and he accepts this. These neurons of his, they were firing the wrong hormone, and now he felt numbness overcome all sensory input. He may as well be a fine marble sculpture, serving as something of a reminder of the importance of friends and the transient nature of one's own livelihood. He doesn't get attached to these faces anymore, he doesn't look into their eyes for some sort of redemption. He has worked so hard for this, and he cherishes the cold plastic table that is now his and his alone.
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ReplyDelete“If a person holds no ambitions in this world, he suffers unknowingly. If a person holds ambitions, he suffers knowingly, but very slowly.”
ReplyDeleteShe used to want to be a doctor, like the ones she would see on TV always saving lives, becoming a hero. But what she didn’t see was the the endless amount of time that was put in. That it took a trillion moments to finally boil down to the one moment it took to be a hero. She wondered if it was worth it. It was her dream, but what if she wasted all her time on it to fail. She could picture it in her head, spending all nighters studying to get into the best medical school, denying her friends invites to parties, spending all her waking hours working to afford such a big investment. Finally after a grueling workload, double the amount of time her peers spent at school and hundreds of thousands of dollars in loans she stands in front of the operating table and comes to the realization that she does not like blood. In fact it makes her quite dizzy. She drops the scalpel and instead of saving a life punctures an organ, ending a life. She has failed. She has spent her prime years gearing up for something that was wrong. She made the wrong choice, the suffering was for nothing. At such a young age, she thinks what else could she be? Maybe a stay at home mom? She decides yes, this will be it. But then she pictures it again. Proud to watch her kids grow up, Henry goes off to Harvard Law and Britt becomes an Oscar nominated actress. How perfect. But soon they start their own lives, they don't need her anymore. She is left with nothing. She realizes this is not what she wanted. She has nothing to live for. She made the wrong choice, the suffering just now comes to the surface.
Kaby Maheswaran
ReplyDelete“For in this world, time has three dimensions, like space.
A girl sits quietly in the back row of her class, listening to others talk. She has things to say, but she mutters them to herself, occasionally jotting them down in her notebook. Their talking about south indian culture, something she’s lived with all her life. But she still doesn’t raise her hand, for she can’t imagine what she would say. She would say something stupid, something that leaves the classroom silent, so she stays quiet and keeps her thoughts about culture to herself. In the second world, the girl sitting in the back row of her class actually raises her hand to say something. She speaks out of impulse, rambling on about random ideas. Here and there she would pause, confused on how to continue. Eventually she stops abruptly and doesn’t say anymore. As the class continues the discussion, she decides that she will never speak in class again. In the third world, the girl sitting in the back row prepares herself to speak. She writes down an entire script in her notebook of what she would say. She would talk about how growing up in a Sri Lankan home shaped her views. She would explain how it made her stand out among her peers, making her see everything with a different set of lens. She would share her childhood experiences with the class, where disney channel was a strange concept. She would talk well, with everything clearly written down. Finally she would end the comment with a concise conclusion. She would share all of this with a faint voice, but would still share with the class.
“...their mechanical movements and sounds synchronized exactly by the turning of gears, which, in turn, are inspired by the perfection of time” (26).
ReplyDeleteIt’s heavy and cold on her wrist. She’s determined to wear it. For appearances. She doesn’t really know how to read it. Only knows that it contains numbers, and two lines that seem to move quite slowly.
It’s later. She wears it now for school. She doesn’t trust the one on the wall. It doesn’t move fast enough. She likes to have her own. To be exact. She walks in the halls, timing the four minutes she has left. She takes it off on the weekends.
It’s summer. She teaches now, and wears it constantly. She needs to know when kids are coming in for lessons. The one on the pool deck wall doesn’t work. The chlorine damages hers, but she keeps it on anyway. The band is worn, but the lines keeps moving. When she takes it off, she feels empty.
They sit with their backs to the land, gazing out onto the endless horizon. The boy with his head in the clouds and his feet on the ground asks her why. She responds that she needs it for her job. He asks her to take it off. To not worry about it in the summer. Summer is liberating, boundless, unconfined. She uses her job as an excuse. She needs it. She feels stressed when she cannot look down and feel centered by the precision of time. He shakes his head. They stare out into the endless ocean, until the beep signals 6:00.
She wears it to bed, and lies awake. The one on the wall ticks, tocks. Ticks, tocks. The one on her wrist beeps on each passing hour. It’s lighter on her wrist now, but the lines move more quickly.
Sosha
“No one sits under a tree with a book, no one gazes at the ripples on a pond, no one lies in thick grass in the country. No one is still” (69).
ReplyDeleteShe goes through the week like a car on a highway; getting up in the morning, speeding through her day, and sleeping at night; she is continuously driving forward for what seems like a perpetual amount of time. Her days, just like everyone elses’, are filled to minute, leaving no time to slow down or stop. She goes from one thing to the next to the next to the next without looking at anything she passes; her eyes are only focused on the next task that is in front of her for once the week starts, there is too much to get done and too little time. She also hears about everyone’s lives; like hers, they are all packed so tightly with work and activities and everything that needs to be done by a certain time. She looks frantically around her, should I be doing that? They have already finished and I haven’t even started! Was that due today? I don’t have time to do that. She goes faster and faster, desperately trying to get through everything that needs to be done and seeing nothing but the time she has left to do it. She rushes through everything in her schedule doing one thing after the other until it becomes too much. She just stops. She looks out at everyone around her, all still rushing and moving from one thing to another, continuously feeling stressed, unable to notice anything else around them. The girl goes outside, looks up, and sees the calmness of the luminous moon and the clarity of the brilliant stars that spot the sky, each radiating with a certain deepness and mystery no one else rushing by can notice. The girl has finally stopped to see the world around her, and for once experiences a faint, but noticeable feeling of peace.
“The Laters and the Nows”
ReplyDeleteIt is evening. A boy sits with his friends in the back seat as his father drives. He gazes lazily out the window as cozy, snow blanketed neighborhoods roll silently past. His father turns a corner and a wall of shining snow banks begins to flow across his vision. The boy looks up to see a field of glossy white snow resting undisturbed, its unbroken surface extending off into the night like a lake of porcelain. The boy thought about how he and his friends had spent the entire day inside, and how much he wanted to go out and thrash around in that field, to build forts there and wage snow war with his comrades, to ride down that low hill with the sled he had in the trunk. The boy remembered his father had told him of a time that he and his friends had paraded around in the winter woods for hours until they were too cold to do it anymore. It was warm memory that had lingered in his father's thoughts for years. But the boy knew him and his friends couldn’t do the same. It was getting dark and his friends parents would expect them home soon. He didn’t even know if they would want to go out there if he suggested it. As the boy pondered this, his vision focused, and he realized that the vehicle had passed the field anyway. The boy glances back, watching plain of snow grow smaller and smaller until it was absorbed by the shade of the evening without a sound. The boy settles back in his seat and allowed his mind to drift to other things. He knew there would be plenty of time to make memories in the future.
It is evening. A teenager sits at his cluttered desk and works. His phone buzzes abruptly and he picks it up. His friend asks if he would want to join him and some others to go bowling on the weekend. The teenager considers this notion, but quickly discards it. This week has been busy, just like the last few. He could forego his studies for a brief time to spend time with his friends, but he always sectioned off the ends of busy weeks to preemptively tackle his future school work. He would sleep a lot better if he stuck to his established routine. He tells his friend that he might go with him some other time, sets down the phone, and gets back to work.
It is evening. A young man sits alone in his small dorm, watching a film he hasn’t seen in awhile. His next door neighbor loudly throws open his door and invites him to a party on campus that night. The young man feels annoyed. He has just finished a draining group project and wants spend some time alone to enjoy himself. He probably won't know anyone at the party and needs to be sharp for an early morning class tomorrow. The young man politely declines and the neighbor turns down the hall saying that it's his choice. The young man settles back into the movie. He knows there will be plenty more parties to attend before he leaves college.
It is evening. A man sits in the comfort of his livingroom, his young children playing on the carpet. He feels contented enough. He has lived a modest life, enjoying the ride without making too many waves. His son tugs on his sleeve and he turns to him. His son asks him what he was like when he was younger. The man thinks its a simple question but as he searches for an answer something grows in him. He reaches back to the stories of childhood adventure and excitement his father told him then recoils, seeing his own life too clearly. A heavy feeling hangs rotting in his gut. He knows that he has thrown away something valuable before he knew he had it. But his mind only touches on the this realization for a moment as it snaps back to the present. He looks to his expectant son and tells him he had a fine youth. He doesn't tell him anything more as he has nothing more to tell. His son looks slightly dissatisfied and turns back to continue playing. The man settles back in his chair. He tries to grasp at whatever he had realized before, but finds that it has evaporated into thin air. The shrugs it off. There would be plenty of time to think about it later.
“But what is the past? Could it be, the firmness of the past is just illusion? Could the past be a kaleidoscope, a pattern of images that shift with each disturbance of a sudden breeze, a laugh, a thought?” (133).
ReplyDeleteThe buzz went off and she lost the last game of the season again. She didn’t play much, but as a member of the team, she was bitter. Afterwards, she left early because she couldn’t stand to look others in the eye. Their stares silently cursed her. That night the sky was a black canvas against the piercing lights that filled the sweaty air. Without warning the ball hit her back. Silence. No one said anything. They continued the game. The counting down was 15. And they ran past her without passing her the ball. They hollered “pass, pass, pass”. Just not to her. The watch read 7:00. She waited outside staring at the black hole above her. No one talked to her.
The memory has become her life. When she wakes up in the morning, she is the girl who sat on the bench. When she passes them in the hallway, she knows they see her failures, her inabilities to be a basketball star. She glances at her feet and looks away. When she comes home, she stays in her bed under the blanket as she replays that night over and over again. She is the girl who could not play.
"A mushy, brown peach is lifted from the garbage and placed on the table to pinken. It pinkens, it turns hard, it is carried in a shopping sack to the grocer's, put on a shelf, removed and crated, returned to the tree with pink blossoms. In this world, time flows backward" (79).
ReplyDeleteHe is sitting at his desk, nothing but the faint tap, tap, tapping of his pencil to be heard by any outside intruder. Staring at the endless equations in front of him, knowing they are easy but wondering how he got here, to this moment, when the only thing that was important was getting an A on his trig test. He sighs, the pencil is placed into his backpack along with his math homework. The bag is zipped up and he walks out of his room, down the stairs and kisses his mother before putting on his shoes and driving to school. He goes through the motions until coming home and brushing his teeth and rolling into bed, another long night and morning ahead of him. He does this for days on end until he is four years old once more. He sits at his desk, nothing but the faint scribble, scribble, scribble of his crayons, and his mothers carefree humming to be heard by any outside intruder. Proudly staring at the endless completed coloring pages ahead of him, knowing they are his and knowing each stroke contains his past, present, and future, all melded into one beautiful calligraphy of color. He exhales with glee, the pink crayon is placed in its bin, the coloring book left with ease on the table. Chair pushed in, he skips down the stairs and kisses his mother before having his favorite grilled cheese and going for the first time to school. He lives, breathing in and out each moment until coming home, having a big bowl of Lucky Charms and being awoken by his mother, another quick and loving night and day ahead of him. This goes on for who knows how long until he is back, and he remembers once more the feeling of freedom.
“For in springtime the populace become sick of the order in their lives.”
ReplyDeleteShe is a mess. She may not seem like it from the outside, but she is frazzled and strung out almost constantly. Her homework is done in a rushed frenzy so she can get to sleep before midnight. She accidentally double-books herself when she makes plans for a friday night. There are scars, cuts and bruises on her body for wiping out and taking hits while playing sports. When she takes a sip of her water bottle in school, she’ll dribble water all over herself. She’ll spend an hour on a homework assignment, and realize five minutes before its due she did it wrong. But even though she knows she may not have it all together all the time, she knows that life is beautiful because it is messy. If it were orderly all the time, there would be nothing to it. Every so often, she may try to fix things and tidy up, but she always goes back to the way things were before. It’s all just more fun that way.
-Anna Vrountas
Delete“The world will end on 26 September 1907. Everyone knows it.
ReplyDeleteThe world will end on 23 October 2018. Everyone knows it. Six months before the end every kid stops attending school. It’s not that the teachers have gone on strike or the power has gone out or there is too much snow on the ground. Everything continues as normal except the children who, knowing that the world will end soon, do not see the point in learning any more. In one house two friends spend the entire day playing video games. They go to sleep and wake up the next morning only play video games for the entire day again. They only stop gaming to eat cake, ice cream, and doughnuts. They become fat but their mother and their doctor do not mind. There is another boy who in his new freetime decides to pursue his passion for cooking that he never had the time for. One day is dedicated to a decadent chocolate cake of five layers which the boy shares with all his friends. Another day is spent in the kitchen roasting a savory brisket over the course of the whole day. A third day is spent out in nature picking fresh apples that will be used for an apple pie. Every day the boy tried a new recipe and tried to perfect his craft. Not surprisingly, a large portion of high school, college students, and adults take to an extreme level of drug and alcohol use to either to cope with the impending end or because they always wanted to try. Four teenagers lie strung out on drugs on the front lawn of a house in the middle of the day. A police car passes by but no one is taken off to jail. What good would arresting these teens do if the world will end soon anyway? Many die preemptively as a result of their drug use. One month before the end everybody quits their job. One man decides to spend his days reading books he never had time to read. However, the books quickly bore the man and, fearful of the end, he decides to take his own life. The death of the man seems to have a shockwave effect on the entire world. On top of the hundreds of millions already passed from the drugs and alcohol, murder and suicide rates skyrocket. Many, like the man, decide they would rather go out on their own terms rather than witness the end. One day before the end and humanity has been erased. The world goes on without the presence of humans, just the chirping birds, the autumn air, and the orange leaves. Then comes 23 October 2018, but there is no end. The world continues on along with the apple orchard and the tall grass that makes up the lawn those teenagers would lay on. Yes, turns out there was no end, but humans, not being able to accept their abrupt end, brought about their own destruction, and that was the end.
I don't know why this ended up so morbid
"This is a world of changed plans, of sudden opportunities, of unexpected visions. For in this world, time flows not evenly but fitfully and, as consequence, people receive fitful glimpses of the future."
ReplyDeleteShe was dressed in a pale pink satin gown, with white flowers made of fabric accentuating the braids and curls in her hair. They had an hour or so before the party, but everyone was already in tuxedos and white dresses waiting in line to have their pictures taken with her. Every few minutes, a different friend approached and posed while flashes went off. One smiling, the other "funny." Eventually, he joined her in front of the stone architecture and smiled for the camera. Then, he got down on one knee as he held her hand. She threw her head back with laughter to draw attention away from the cherry tint of her face. They both knew there had been a connection growing throughout the year but the timing was wrong and they stayed "just friends."
One year later, she was still falling in love with him but the timing was wrong, again. Five months after that, they kissed for the first time and she was head over heels. Another year passed, they were even more in love than before. By now, she knew she had, all along, been meeting her future -- him.
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ReplyDelete“How could she know that time will begin again, that she will be born again, will study at the gymnasium again, will show her paintings at the gallery in Zurich, will again meet her husband in the small library… How could she know?”
ReplyDeleteIt is midnight and she is still up studying. It seems like it is a long night ahead of her.
A debilitating migraine has accompanied her throughout the past month or so, and is now getting stronger. As the words were jumbling together and no progress was being made, she decided to quit working and went to sleep. The world seemed to be collapsing around her as she realized that, tomorrow, all her past efforts will end up meaningless and ridiculous because she is going to school unprepared for her assignments. By the time the alarm clock rings, her nerves had already woken her up. She begins the day uneasy and scared. After what seemed like eternity, the school day ended and has not gone nearly as bad as she anticipated. As a weight is lifted off her shoulders, she decided to hang out with a long time friend. When they are together, they make jokes that only the two of them would understand and they die of laughter. Now, she is filled with hope and feels as everything is possible. The worries of the beginning of the day seemed so miniscule, so far away, as the only thing that mattered was being in the moment, and being happy. As the day came to an end, she went home and slept. The day she stressed over and felt was never going to end, actually ended. Her situation is not unique, but was shared by many. It will continue to be shared by many. In her own life, it happened several times before and will happen again in the future. Another day will pass, the sun will rise again. The birds will sing as she wakes up. She will laugh again until her stomach hurts. She will travel and see her family again. She will sing at the top of her lungs to the radio with her friends in the car. She will paint new paintings. She will meet new people. She will see new places. She will see another sunrise and another sunset. Of course, more bad moments will continue to arise, but it will only make her appreciate the good ones even more. As everyday passes, she will grow stronger and happier. With every new sunshine, she will realize that everything is possible.
“Imagine a world in which there is no time. Only images. A child at the seashore, spellbound by her first glimpse of the ocean. A woman standing on a balcony at dawn, her hair down, he loose sleeping siks, he bare feet, her lips”.
ReplyDeleteA faint purple glow above bare trees through square windows. The glimpse of a long wooden bridge in the thick of the woods, neat in the center of the dead branches that litter the forest floor. A thick white comforter and blanket, soft and disheveled in the morning light. A young girl with wavy brown hair, freckles and dark circles under her eyes. A marble countertop, grey and littered with hand creams and soap and toothpaste. The reflection of tired blue eyes. A pile of black clothing, abandoned late at night in an upstairs hall on its way to the laundry room. An energetic puppy wondering why her family isn’t quite as excited for the day ahead as she is. A yellow glow emitting from the small grey house, a warmth within that contrasts its surroundings. The waft of an apple-scented candle- fake but fresh and clean-smelling. Four silver chairs, one left empty. A man in a blue striped shirt and a suit jacket balancing coffee and keys and searching for something he knows he has forgotten. A pair of wire-rimmed glasses, left on a coffee table next to an open book. A yellow bus, stopping quickly at the house but not finding any students ready to depart from the comfort of their puppy and the warmth of their living room. A navy backpack, then grey, then pink, each one nearly as large as its owner. A cloud of breath interrupting the silence of the air. A driveway caked with leaves and pine needles and two cars gradually slipping off the layer of frost that has surrounded them.
"Events, once happened, lose reality, alter with a glance, a storm, a night. In time, the past never happened.”
ReplyDeleteHe lived in a constant state of fear. For every action, movement, or form of discourse, he dreaded that he would do something that would result in a feeling of regret in the future. His paranoia led him to think that as he walked by his peers in the halls of his high school, they judged every aspect of his existence: the way he looked, spoke, stood, dressed, walked, and so on and so on. His suspicion that society scrutinized him in every shape, way, and form possible led him to alienate himself from the community. Rarely did he engage in any sort of social interaction with individuals outside of his immediate family, and as a result, his voice withered into an echo. He feared that if he were to become a part of his community, he would do or say something that would result in utter embarrassment, and he would dwell on it for the rest of eternity. His suspicions, though, were undermined by a lack of acumen. In reality, he was never criticized by his actions, but rather his decision to remain isolated as an individual. They mocked him for the fact that he was and remained an outsider, but never for an instance of social awkwardness. The paranoia that was fueled by the thought that others judged him for his actions led to what he so deeply feared in the first place: public humiliation. He suffered as a result of his tendency to dwell on a past that had never existed; he was alone.
"A person who cannot imagine the future is a person who cannot contemplate the results of his own actions. Some are thus paralyzed into inaction." Some, seeing no future, imagine no consequences. They revel in the freedom from responsibility to their future selves, abandoning pretense of epicurianism in favor of hedonistic pleasure. Their world ends every instant, the first and last memory of their existence the immunity from the future. They do not learn, change, or develop. In a little cafe on Via della Citta, a young man sits with a coffee in a small glass cup. He has been stilly watching the steam. He has never not ordered this coffee, never not specified its clear vessel. All he has ever known is this moment, alone at the marble table. It is unclear if this is every morning or none. He doesn't care. He doesn't drink the coffee or get up, for he is waiting to do nothing. The steam keeps curling off the rim of the glass, and in the absence of thought, the man hears rain.
ReplyDelete“Imagine a world in which there is no time. Only images.”
ReplyDeleteAs pharmacists, chemists, people at cafes, young children, move about their lives unaware of all time there will be an abrupt stop to all movement. There will be a crack. The images and memories of things that have not yet occurred will split into three different versions with three differing actions and results. For this is a world where time shifts and morphs like a parasite taking over a host. This sensory overdrive causes many to focus in on one of the scenarios with an eerie feeling of truth and reality yet distortion. Others will be unable to perceive the memories as anything more than insanity, falling victim to the paralyzing fear of changing time. Those able to remain open to differing results though it causes a crippling anxiety will fall in line with one of the versions of time.
“If a person holds no ambitions in this world, he suffers unknowingly. If a person holds ambitions, he suffers knowingly, but very slowly.”
ReplyDeleteThe days, months, years pass, and the time blurs together like a seemingless blob. There are two types of people that suffer under the illusion of time, and within the two some that crossover aimlessly. The first person is haunted by going through the motions of completing tasks without knowing the path they want to take. They don’t know what that their hard work without a goal leads to their own suffering, stuck in a place between the stages of their life. The second person knows what they want, and struggles everyday of their lives to work towards it. This person has drive and ambition, yet they still struggle when they see their efforts turn into failures and realize that they may have tried to reach too high. This person is in eternal turmoil, suffering for their whole life to try to achieve something just out of their reach. Then is the person who crosses over. Pressured by society, they feel a need to set their ambitions before they know who they are. They then struggle, as the second person, to achieve their goals. However they soon realize their dream is not worth the struggle, and convert into the first person. They repeat this process endlessly, doing what their society tells them to do, never finding their own ambitions.
"Imagine a world where these is no time. Only images." (57)
ReplyDeleteAn untied shoe. A paint can being opened. The smell of cinnamon. A torn ticket stub. Orange light shining under a door. Two friends eating bagels. Laughter ricocheting off walls. Unbrushed hair. A girl asleep using her textbook as a pillow. The taste of banana bread on Sunday morning. Nail polish flaking off. A scooter gathering dust in a garage. A man sneezing in the shower. A white and blue house on top of a hill. A group of kids gathered around a small brown dog. Shiny blue braces being tightened. Hair cascading down shoulders. A girl covering her mouth as she laughs. Secrets being told in the dark. The look on a face as they realize they can't go back. Lemon peels strewn on a counter. Light reflecting off marble. Raspberry popsicles melting in a bathtub. A blinking cursor on a blank page. Half written journal entries. Feathers suspended in mid air. A woman placing a necklace on her neck, the smell of her perfume in the air. Crickets chirping as dusk falls. A dog eared book page, stained with dirt. An artist meeting a writer. A trunk of letters sent years ago. A vase of flowers on a coffee table. A man raking his fingers through his thinning hair. Moths flocking to a glass door. A child squeezing a balloon. A marker rolling off a desk. Ripped paints taped together. A glass shatters on wood floors. Soft hands and callused fingers. A train with purple cars rushing past, a man holding a pizza box stops and stares. Chestnuts on the ground, cracked and crushed. Blackberries on the vine, sticky and sweet. A girl wearing mismatched socks, trying desperately to hide her frown. A boy reaches and touches the ceiling. The crackling of headphones as they are plugged into an old laptop. A bed with no sheets and four duvets. An unopened envelope. A key that belongs to no lock.
“For twenty years he has been the ideal friend to his friends, generous, interested, soft-spoken, affectionate. What could have happened?”
ReplyDelete100 ways to lose a friend. The strategy behind it is simple, painful, but simple. He has thoughts that he shares sometimes, they end up dissipating, falling to the sunken part of himself. Substantial emotions are ignored, he wonders what they must think, not their perception of him, that has never mattered, but if they have ever cared. He’s lost, yet, there has not been a state any better, not one that suffices quite like this. He does not settle, he simply gives up, the tragedy of the commons. The time he spent ignored, the severity of the connection in greater focus. When his essence is poured into words, he isn’t drained, he isn’t anything for that matter, except someone who woefully attempts to communicate genuinely. Knowing, that it will always play out in this same distasteful matter, with the same distasteful people. Yet, he is the same, not always, but when he doesn’t feel like acting that part, he is a recluse, questioned, then forgotten.
"One cannot walk down an avenue, converse with a friend, enter a building, browse beneath the sandstone arches of an old arcade without meeting an instrument of time."
ReplyDeleteNo one can escape from the clutch of an hour hand, outrun the ever-turning pace of a minute hand, ignore the truths that lie with each passing second. In this society of hours time is the new commodity; instead of buying loves of bread from the market on a street corner we pay the cashier behind the desk with minutes of our lives. A little girl playing hopscotch in the cool summer afternoon pays for her fun with an hour of her still young life. Time is everywhere. Time knows all. Time is God. What other force dictates so much of a person's habits, keeps them on the brink of a breakdown, teeters with their emotions so playfully and carefree, unknowing of the human effect it causes? From its ever-important presence in everything we do, it is natural that we create objects to obsessively keep track of our rapidly diminishing minutes. If there is any sense at all in the universe, it is that mankind track their progress from the time a little boy falls on his first bike and scrapes his knee, to the last time he hugs his son goodbye.
“What sense is there in continuing when one has seen the future?”
ReplyDeleteSomething is always going to happen. It can either be good or bad, but the time viewed as still to come is always a guaranteed surprise. Regardless he attempts to guess the future as an attempt to gain knowledge and insight in order to know the future. But as he gains the knowledge, it seems to buffer a dull response. The thrill and surprise of the future have seemed to fade away. What was unknown is known and what was unexpected is expected. His excitement is now depression and his drive has dissipated into a sense of sorrow. To him the future is known, everything that is going to happen is no surprise. To him, time is linear with no outliers bound to a straight line which he knows of each point. There is no point to continue, the future is gone and the thrill to be surprised has vanished forever.
“...the populace become sick of the order in their lives.”
ReplyDeleteOrder. One foot in front of the other. Day by day. 24 hours pass by again and again. Students sit in the classroom tapping their pencils, biting their nails, doodling on their notebooks trying to pass the time. One never really understands order until they are placed in a school setting. Sports, extracurriculars, homework, work, spending time with family, socializing with friends, all has to be done in order. Specific times for each so it can all fit into one day. Into 24 hours. Try to accomplish everything you can in 24 hours. But also getting the proper amount of sleep and exercise. Sometimes the order gets to be too much. What would happen if you went against the order? Everyone would be out of place. 24 hours would no longer be the time frame. Work would be forever changed. Sleep and rest could take over our lives. The world would be turned upside down and inside out. Is it worth the risk?
Colleen McConnell
“In time, there are an infinity of worlds”
ReplyDeleteAs she wakes up to the sound of her blarring alarm, all she can think about is how she wished it didn't go off. She reaches to turn it off, and knocks her thick glasses to the floor. Off goes the alarm, up come the glasses, and out of bed she goes. To the bathroom to poke contacts on her eyes, rub her face with soap, and scrub her teeth with minty freshness. She wishes that she could climb back into bed instead of continuing the day, but she knows that she must go to school, because that’s what she’s supposed to do. She must learn, write, compute, and slove, again and again. She doesn’t mind though, since she enjoys the friendly faces, and the kind teachers, and the special lunch lady who gives her extra pretzles. She doesn’t mind the repetativeness of the school year, and the repatativeness of the morning, or the repetative slaming of the alarm.
As she wakes up to the sound of her blarring alarm, all she can think about is how she wished it didn’t go off. She reaches to turn it off, and rolls off the bed doing so. She lands on her wrist on the way down. Off goes the alarm, down goes her body, and out comes her scream. Her sister rushes in, takes one look at the twisted hand, and runs back out to get her mother. A day begins and ends in a hospital bed. A broken Ulna and fractured Lunate, and torn Superficial Capsular Tissue. A day where she would have gotten extra pretzels turned into a day where she couldnt eat before her surgery. She wished that she had reached for her glasses first, that way she could have seen where to slam the alram.
As she wakes up to the sound of her blarring alarm, all she can think about is how she wished it didn’t go off. She reaches to turn it off, and embraces the silence that followed. She notices how warm her toes are, how the early rising sun emmits purple light through her windows, how lovely the early morning quiet is. She relishes in the heat of her own bed, stretches her arms up in front of her, and pulls the covers high over her head. Today was a day in which she would stay still for as long as she could, becuase time to her could be stopped and started instantaneously. And today was a day in which she wanted to sleep for a few more “minutes”.
Actual Quote:
ReplyDelete“Who would fare better in this world of fitful time? Those who have seen the future and live only one life? Or those who have not seen the future and wait to live life? Or those who deny the future and live two lives?”
My Rendition:
He writes. The writing is regarded positively by some. Negatively by others. This does not affect him. He writes nevertheless. Some of his words blend together with other words to create new, intricate meanings that are cherished and appreciated, and others merely remain words. He dreams of his writing gaining recognition. Of people understanding the thoughts that run behind the mind of a writer and attempt to put themselves in the position of the penman. But this does not occur. Students stare at words, coerced into reading them for school essaywriting and assignments. Grandfathers stare at newspapers with dull countenances. Children stare at storybooks. All they do is stare. They never absorb. They do not have time to do so. Life moves quite rapidly. More rapid than one may think. And thus, amongst children's classes, and work, and school, and this and that, the book may remain in the hands of the reader, but never in his or her mind. This loop is inevitable. This loop is time. This loop is existence.