Tied with a Beating Clock

Morning Thoughts #273

Do you know what time it is? That clock is living. Don’t believe me? Go and check. The walled city that is the story of your life up to this very point is surrounded. Your sense of self, sturdy as it may be, is now in need of cannons for protection. And probably more is needed. And what happens when you begin to awaken to the fact that even cannons might be futile? That the marauding forces, momentarily dammed beyond this known moment, will soon breach the makeshift sun that your conception of day has hitherto been bound to? Oh, incoming dark night of the soul, where fate sleeps without need of nightlights.

Later, perhaps much later, it’s morning - its light is striking new. Light so new it’s as if the definition outbridged considerations of luminosity. Funny to say, the old world is your childhood. You’ve aged, keeping the Columbus of that fact from yourself. It’s all here now, wild and untrodden, and more barbarous in experience than could ever have been imagined. You’ll need to win something from here, living now undefended, to survive. You need new eyes, self-employed senses. Throw away every insight that has been sold to you readymade. Become a weaver of the undistilled. The too polished in spirit search for an organic moment like a needle in the proverbial haystack. Yes, you’re cooked without ingredients - so go and find them, and make something out of another scavenged day.