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I must have fallen asleep. While rubbing my eyes sleepily, I noticed the rain was letting up a bit, even though it was still there, the constant pitter-patter rhythm like a lullaby persuading me to go back to slumber.
But my mind was already awake, though not fully -- you know, like a trance, dazed, between reality and imagination, the state which you can tip over to either side.
I love rain because it's like curtains. Curtains separate. Sometimes you need your privacy.
I also love that smell of dampness of earth that precedes a downpour. Those organic gases, released from the soil because the atmospheric pressure is lower. To me it's like a promise, a certain sign that a bucket is about to tumble, up there in the heavens. People usually forget this, that something begins; you always remember when it ends, the rainbow appears. When do we all start? When the sperm meets the ovum? When you start emitting brainwave? A beginning is so hard to define.
I also love writing. You know how writing, or a painting, or any piece of art for that matter, has this timeless quality? Time freezes, you can read or view or feel or hear that particular part over and over again. The essence has been captured. The description in a paragraph, the scenery in a painting, the arrangement of sounds in a song, the scene of war on a frieze, the shapes in a sculpture. That frame, or several of them, has been fixed, becoming something that withstands Time itself.
But writing doesn't limit oneself to the freezing of Time, but also the stretching and compressing of it. In Ulysses, James Joyce stretched one day to 265,000 words. I remember my first time seeing the book -- I thought it was an encyclopaedia or something; no, it's a novel. Compression of time is even simpler: "A child was born, grew up until ripe old age, died". In fact, a writer has more mastery over Time than other artists do; a time travel at the flick of the wand: "For as in Adam all die, even so in Christ shall all be made alive".
This manipulation of Time is intoxicating. Perhaps in a few hours the rain would have stopped, but you can go back a few paragraphs, and it was still raining. Every time you come back on this page to this little universe, it is still raining. And it won't ever stop. It's like you've made a rip in the space-time continuum, taking a glimpse of eternity. Isn't it maddening? Isn't it like getting drunk?
A cool breeze gently passed and it calmed me somehow. I sighed. It must have been my daze talking.
I thought I can hear faint sounds of piano -- I think I'm tipping over to dreamland -- no one normally plays at this hour.
Back to sleep.
I must have fallen asleep. While rubbing my eyes sleepily, I noticed the rain was letting up a bit, even though it was still there, the constant pitter-patter rhythm like a lullaby persuading me to go back to slumber.
But my mind was already awake, though not fully -- you know, like a trance, dazed, between reality and imagination, the state which you can tip over to either side.
I love rain because it's like curtains. Curtains separate. Sometimes you need your privacy.
I also love that smell of dampness of earth that precedes a downpour. Those organic gases, released from the soil because the atmospheric pressure is lower. To me it's like a promise, a certain sign that a bucket is about to tumble, up there in the heavens. People usually forget this, that something begins; you always remember when it ends, the rainbow appears. When do we all start? When the sperm meets the ovum? When you start emitting brainwave? A beginning is so hard to define.
I also love writing. You know how writing, or a painting, or any piece of art for that matter, has this timeless quality? Time freezes, you can read or view or feel or hear that particular part over and over again. The essence has been captured. The description in a paragraph, the scenery in a painting, the arrangement of sounds in a song, the scene of war on a frieze, the shapes in a sculpture. That frame, or several of them, has been fixed, becoming something that withstands Time itself.
But writing doesn't limit oneself to the freezing of Time, but also the stretching and compressing of it. In Ulysses, James Joyce stretched one day to 265,000 words. I remember my first time seeing the book -- I thought it was an encyclopaedia or something; no, it's a novel. Compression of time is even simpler: "A child was born, grew up until ripe old age, died". In fact, a writer has more mastery over Time than other artists do; a time travel at the flick of the wand: "For as in Adam all die, even so in Christ shall all be made alive".
This manipulation of Time is intoxicating. Perhaps in a few hours the rain would have stopped, but you can go back a few paragraphs, and it was still raining. Every time you come back on this page to this little universe, it is still raining. And it won't ever stop. It's like you've made a rip in the space-time continuum, taking a glimpse of eternity. Isn't it maddening? Isn't it like getting drunk?
A cool breeze gently passed and it calmed me somehow. I sighed. It must have been my daze talking.
I thought I can hear faint sounds of piano -- I think I'm tipping over to dreamland -- no one normally plays at this hour.
Back to sleep.
2 comments:
Notes:
"For as in Adam all die, even so in Christ shall all be made alive."
1 Cor. 15:22
Note here that Paul is making a jump from time of Fall to the time of Christ's second coming.
--rexy--
The analogy of turning back the page is like ripping through spacetime continuum is brilliant=)
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