picnic by the bayou
I understand that existing in time means existing as a singular point of view, a singular flickering bright spot. If we are all in the same river of time, then those flickering reflections of sunlight that rise and fall make up our entire history, but the collection of our existence is not that river. Is time an illusion, or does the alternating sunglint produce a fictitious sense of movement?
To this day, I still have a sense that the river we’re in is frozen, but the sun above shines forever. The existence of the flickering sun spots is a coincidence, delimited by other accidental beings, and then disappears so quickly, without a trace.
So I just happen to be here. I’m like Nagel’s bat. I’m situated in this second of time, but I’m bound to be defined by this second’s cave, by this second’s body, and by this second. Perhaps this second is just a metaphor. What we want to talk about is not time but change: a change that is so relative and can’t be captured.
What am I surrounded by? I exist in this frozen river. My tears flow for our history, and yet our history defines my tears. And I can’t write about history, I can’t write about my tears. All I have is a point a view.
