Our houses do not contain time.  Our woods do not contain time.  Perhaps mankind had instinctively sensed, just even for a moment, the flimsiness of the objective solidity that enfolds a material thing. Even the actual, that actual time that had been long familiar to us, does not exist nor has it been endowed upon the object.  It emerges that houses and sky and the woods, even more so than that which is actual, do not exist.

When a lone human being lived within his own nail he became saddened and cried and moaned.  But somehow he noticed that there is no yesterday, there is no tomorrow, there is only today.  And having lived through the present day he said: now there is something to talk about.  This present day I do not possess; it doesn’t exist for one who lives in his head, who races around like a madman, who drinks and eats, who floats on a raft, who sleeps on the grave of his friend.  We all have identical events.  We have something to talk about.

And so he began to observe the world’s borders, and in the walls of time’s container he thought he saw God.


~ by Scott Hamilton Peters on March 9, 2010.

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