He knew time is the sense of continuity. An illusion of perceiving the events of the world in order, linked with each other making sense of why they have happened. Believing in time is reading the signs in misery to make sense of the world outside that may simply be working with another kind of knowledge… and that knowledge could be even more able to tell us the real story.
Time is an artificial way of making sense of the world, a tale made up for us to make us feel less scared, more in control. But now he feels like time is riding his life. There must be a better explanation of what is happenning and a way to free himself.
He can challenge this all. He needs proof.
Where would he find a proof? In his memory? Would his memory defeat itself? Wasn’t it a compilation of what he thought had happened? How can one challenge his very beliefs? If he could do such a thing would it not be cutting the roots that connect him to the earth, eartliness. He felt like a rebel, an anarchic who denied his family before everything else, to ovecome what is most difficult. With a burning heart, in fear and despair, already regretful for what he has done. Otherwise what would be his life but a mere distraction. No home for a rebel! Since he opened the door once and saw there is this entire world behind the walls, would he be able to go back and sit peacefully? He is now changed. He wonders about the unquestionable, regardless of whether there is an answer. I can master asking the questions, he thought.
He wished he could see a photograph, a painting that depicts the time, as a moment that independently exists. A metaphor… I want to see how it looks like.
This reminds him of her. Her teeth when she smiled on that misty day, by the south coast, above the white shoulders. Her wavy brown hair… He remembers her sitting on the grass, feeling a bit cold, her lips look purpleish, she is cold, she blinks her eyes, eyelashes are mixed, she closes her eyes twice and opens bigger each time. He remembers her wearing that navy cardigan on top of her white blouse, she is wearing pale red jeans. He thinks she is elegant and subtle. Her head is turned slightly back, to see him. From this angle, her face, her legs and feet, tip of the white shoulder and the misty ocean can be seen in one frame. A frame he is not sure whether it has even existed. Maybe he is now too sad to remember anything about her, that’s it. Maybe he is making up new scenes that included her. Perhaps it is happening now, somehow on another level, where the things do not need a body to experience being alive. Anything else he remembers is black and white.
Moving forward in time will not bring any wisdom or happiness he thinks: forward or backward… He now wants to move downwards and upwards, vertically in time.
H wants to live in the spacious roof tops and dark, cold vaults of the life and on the every floors in between. But he feels he is an average man, scared of heights and depths.