Running Down The Edge Of The Escalator

2024 Author: Harry Day | [email protected]. Last modified: 2023-12-17 15:43

People are running, in a hurry, and there is nothing to be done with this running. To skip an atomic explosion in an impulse to quickly squeeze your molecule between the atomic lattice is a predetermined matter. We are in a hurry to live, we are in a hurry to die. Time freezes like a jelly, so hard to penetrate, like the feelings from which our steps rustle, like the states that we see distantly accelerating on takeoff, fuel pours like a river, as if each of us is an oil tycoon of love and a generous patron of time. It is difficult to stop even a glance, it is like a high-speed digital camera, clicks frame by frame, painting on a piece of reality, and this is not Jean Baudrillard with his simulacra, this is us. This is me.

On the runway there are traces of burnt rubber of tires, overcoming their life cycle capabilities, sweat runs down the back in an even trickle, the thirst to sit in a subway car burst into it like a fury for a ball, without removing the chariot from its gloomy ass magnified by the hybrid zoom of the silent witnesses. So what? Were you in time?

There is a lot in this insane waste of energy, a lot. The work is done colossal just to avoid relaxation and feeling. Sounds absurd. Yes exactly. Peering into the masks, a moment of lost forever moments of happiness flies by, once and for all, it is not, and you are behind it faster and faster, and the slower you sit, the faster the chair seems to move on this planet. The ancients said they warned us, but what do we care about them, they have long lagged behind us, they are a turtle, and we are Achilles, and it does not matter that we are in an endless time trap of our fantasies, the main thing is that we are moving and the background is changing, but it means we ran away. The figure will not leave the background if we deal with the properties of the background flying past the possibility of the appearance of the figure, and this is the whole goal, it seems to us that the background blurred from our movement, obeying our speed, creates a new figure at our request. And that's okay, even if it isn't.

I am in a hurry from myself, I cannot allow myself to be swallowed up by feelings and this is a dead end in thinking, they simply are not there, only the wind whistles deafeningly. It is impossible to imagine that staying in a feeling is faster than running away from it. This is absurd, this is a paradox, this is what we are unable to understand with a running mind, this is what escapes from us with us.

When I write this, I am the one who runs into silence, fleeing from the world, freezes and opens the run in myself, he runs, and I stand. This passage of time shines through on my fingers, I cannot control it, I can only run away, hide behind the thick walls of the pages of people who have run away, and this movement gives rise to the music of words never spoken, never read, not written by me, they just are, and I just saw them in front of me, opening my clenched fingers. They flowed away like water leaving me dry and slow. And again this thirst. And the noise of bodies flying past, drops, splashes clogging the background, molecules of happiness are scattered on the floor, they do not need to be collected, these are not toys.