Thursday, August 03, 2017

He Speaks of Senseless Things



Through cascading drops of rain; each meeting his chest, arms and face an individual; down through the concave curves and convex bends he sees the world in all its grotesque beauty.
Cocks the lever and aims for the dark green apex of the road.
No one lurks at Fiddlers’ Notch where the tennis players have long left the court to a florescent rash of discarded balls.
Merging with the wind-blown cars; where, carapace-bound within, faces frown but see no further than the edges of the screen; he flows with the river of things, enjoying momentarily the lessening of effort required to pass through time.
He knows from experience that it is perhaps unreasonable to expect this 55-year-old body to take on the hi-precision tasks of a 20-year-old, so keeps his movements smooth and slow, with no desire to chase time or to return to the dead air of warm and dry.
As with all things mechanical, efficiency is the key: legs spinning too easily at high speed are wasting energy, and we all know what happens when we waste energy.
A lesson learned too late it seems:
“Until we have become like grass on the surface of the planet, to be mown at the will of the laws of equilibrium.”
Time, the abstract cultural construct, weighs all.

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