a few hundred pages in
i find that its 1am too often. i look up from the pages of a book and wonder how time applies to imagination and where electrons go when they jump from one orbit to another.
the latter fascinates me a great deal, more than i care to admit, because of the endlessness of the possibilities and the absurdity that lies in attempting to enumerate them.
the former is related, relatively speaking, for to travel from one place to another the illusion of time passing must occur, and a time travel of sorts is necessary when reading anything. present time is suspended, abolished, even, and the author’s time is all that exists for the time being.
who knows where i’ve been, where i’ve escaped to when my eyes peruse the words of a single page, a paragraph. who knows what i’ve taken with me, what i’ve left behind, what turn of events have passed in the simple turning of a few pages, how i’ve projected the realities of fictitious characters onto conversations with family and friends, and how poetic a recap of yesterday’s sales must seem to my unsuspecting boss.
and there’s always a resounding sadness when coming up for air, grasping for those parallels between an imaginary self that jumps from one existence to another and the self thinking this absurdity into being, parallels that are so fewand far between that my fingers stretch strenuously to press them together, futilely.