methrowrock: (Default)
[personal profile] methrowrock
So I am sitting here, typing away at the keyboard that is made for gremlins and elves. My thumbs hesitate between the slivers of grey space, wondering about the constellations that they will trace out. I wish I could say that it is a cosmos in my head, but it is not. Black holes and vortexes, maybe, and that is the extent of my know-how of the universe. 

An interesting tweet popped up on the feed today. Apparently, scientists of some sort discovered an Earth-like planet that could support life only 22 light years away! Oh the potential, the functions, the knowledge! But a light year is still so many human years away. What is it about us that we delight in discovering situations similar to our own? We love to see the un-known, the un-real, the un-iverse as a reflection of ourselves, and we would spend hours grinning foolishly at how similar we are, how different you are! We exist as our own points of references: if that is not loneliness, I don't know what is.

The train is exceptionally crowded today. Hulking helices zipping along, filled with people with places to go, people to meet. There is an odd sense of temporality, of duality. The sense that you are there only to be somewhere else- the purpose of the journey. The sense that you are there and you are somewhere else- the process of the journey, plugged into your private sphere of music. The skidding tyres attempt to override the tincan drumming, the conversations of others jostle for your attention and judgments: they forgot that you are an obstinate oaf, so up goes the volume, down with the world. 

And even, within yourself, there are odd contrasts. The air conditioning blows upon my shiny knees, and yet, the backs of them are clammy, having stuck to my thighs for too long. There is a slight stickiness of backs, that disappears where my spine dips into its curve. It is something small, but something discomfiting. Haha it is funny how the tiniest unease is amplified when the sensory faculties are prickled. All of a sudden, your body is not your own, and these flying fat thumbs, who do they belong to!?

So this is me without a thesaurus and self-censorship, huh. There is more, but alas, I have missed my stop. Sigh.
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methrowrock

March 2013

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