Thursday, February 19, 2004
Three minutes
thank you Blogger for eating my last post. I hope it was tasty.
Another dream. Another time, another reality.
This reality brings with it a slightly cleaner flat, and a slightly calmer me.
Walking the frigid streets of london, sheltering in Borders with the warmth of another Pratchett sci-fi masterpiece (some of his serious works are very good) my soul is salved, my fatigue washed away.
But I can't help looking up every now and then into the bland faces of the sea of humanity around me, wondering if perhaps, like that cinematography screenplay cliche we pass each other in time, once in a while; strangers in the night, overlapping blurs in time-lapse photography - never quite meeting in the reality of the moment. Perhaps we pass within moments of each other. Or perhaps You are not really here after all.
Fate deals the cards, fate gives us the almosts. We do the rest.
I have exhausted my means; I've done more than enough for a lifetime.
I am tired.
The rest is up to You. But of course, only if You want to - and I know, somewhere in this cynical self that You do not.
And so I read, and laugh with Pratchett. Alone, but adequate.
And it is good - enough.
thank you Blogger for eating my last post. I hope it was tasty.
Another dream. Another time, another reality.
This reality brings with it a slightly cleaner flat, and a slightly calmer me.
Walking the frigid streets of london, sheltering in Borders with the warmth of another Pratchett sci-fi masterpiece (some of his serious works are very good) my soul is salved, my fatigue washed away.
But I can't help looking up every now and then into the bland faces of the sea of humanity around me, wondering if perhaps, like that cinematography screenplay cliche we pass each other in time, once in a while; strangers in the night, overlapping blurs in time-lapse photography - never quite meeting in the reality of the moment. Perhaps we pass within moments of each other. Or perhaps You are not really here after all.
Fate deals the cards, fate gives us the almosts. We do the rest.
I have exhausted my means; I've done more than enough for a lifetime.
I am tired.
The rest is up to You. But of course, only if You want to - and I know, somewhere in this cynical self that You do not.
And so I read, and laugh with Pratchett. Alone, but adequate.
And it is good - enough.
