a brief encounter
i just watched wall-e, and i can say with little pride that yes, my heart did melt. we've reached an age when we dream of robots and love on the same plane. i actually finished the entire credit sequence of the movie too. i found this name: justin wright. i googled him up--the movie was dedicated to him. he was an animator in pixar. i found his blog, and some illustrations.
he was only 27. i'm turning 20 in the next 75 days. so far, i've done nothing i'm immensely proud of. i've none of those experiences defining a lifetime. should i die in the next few weeks, at the last instant, when the closing billboards of my life roll, i fear they will be horribly empty. it's time to get off my ass and actually do something.
(then again, i'm just waiting for boredom to get unbearable. when it does though, i'm not sure what--).
i visited a place where i spent much of my life. you know you've started aging when you come to realize that a place is in itself a story. your mind's eye begins projecting time-lapse footage and you learn (but keep to yourself) that days are just seconds, short bursts of light and dark. old passageways have given way to high-tech corridors, grass turns to glass, sunlight is eclipsed by fluorescence, and father time now comes in dot matrix. every now and then you come across images that remain unchanged. the relief of the virgin hangs in the same wall, or everybody celebrates a holiday in the exact same way 10 or so years ago. you smell the distinct scent of home, except home is not miles away, it's years away. and they say that time is the greatest distance between two objects.
i wandered around with a sense of both loss and familiarity. sometimes an old hall housed something new, i found that some doors now opened to new faces, and some new doors opened to old ones. there is plenty of change, undoubtedly. but change causes fleeting sensations. what drew me in was not the air conditioning in the cafe, nor the glass-enclosed technology. what hit close to home was that behind the now-creased faces and greying hair were the same people. it was as if concrete slabs collapsed all around, finally releasing the soul that gave birth and that continues to sustain what was once home, and what may be home for a very long time to come.
you know you've been gone awhile when the stories are in the things that haven't changed.
he was only 27. i'm turning 20 in the next 75 days. so far, i've done nothing i'm immensely proud of. i've none of those experiences defining a lifetime. should i die in the next few weeks, at the last instant, when the closing billboards of my life roll, i fear they will be horribly empty. it's time to get off my ass and actually do something.
(then again, i'm just waiting for boredom to get unbearable. when it does though, i'm not sure what--).
i visited a place where i spent much of my life. you know you've started aging when you come to realize that a place is in itself a story. your mind's eye begins projecting time-lapse footage and you learn (but keep to yourself) that days are just seconds, short bursts of light and dark. old passageways have given way to high-tech corridors, grass turns to glass, sunlight is eclipsed by fluorescence, and father time now comes in dot matrix. every now and then you come across images that remain unchanged. the relief of the virgin hangs in the same wall, or everybody celebrates a holiday in the exact same way 10 or so years ago. you smell the distinct scent of home, except home is not miles away, it's years away. and they say that time is the greatest distance between two objects.
i wandered around with a sense of both loss and familiarity. sometimes an old hall housed something new, i found that some doors now opened to new faces, and some new doors opened to old ones. there is plenty of change, undoubtedly. but change causes fleeting sensations. what drew me in was not the air conditioning in the cafe, nor the glass-enclosed technology. what hit close to home was that behind the now-creased faces and greying hair were the same people. it was as if concrete slabs collapsed all around, finally releasing the soul that gave birth and that continues to sustain what was once home, and what may be home for a very long time to come.
you know you've been gone awhile when the stories are in the things that haven't changed.