| Sticky Time |
| Houston Blankenship |
There is a perfect stillness that lies between ticks on a clock, between clicks of the little hand; an enormous quasi-second when all that is stops its frantic, hurried motion and pauses in quiet reflection, in serene contemplation of the infinite potential of each and every thing, before lurching forward again in its confusing, awkward voyage. These lapses in time are diverse in purpose and style, but the power of these lulls is unlimited. The countless thoughts developed in these still vacuums are cosmic in impact. The greatest thoughts ever thought, of the nature of god, the meaning of man, the purpose of love, the impact of war, the hows and whys of all that fills this existence, were conceived, contemplated, debated, and selected internally in these moments when time stops. The leaves pause in their swaying, the birds� wings cease mid-flap, raindrops hover, and for a moment, time sticks. You can still hear yourself breathing, you can see every detail on every individual blade of grass with crystal clarity, you can taste the moisture in the air, you can smell the faintest of flowers across the field, but for a moment, you feel nothing. There is nothing but thought, the endless labyrinth of your mind�s darkest corners, the perfect capacity for logic and analysis, as the greatest truths in reality are unlocked and unfolded before you, within your reach at last. And as the clock ticks forward again, and everything leaps into motion, you grasp with a desperation born of tasting truth to hold onto the knowledge you�ve gained, only to feel it fall away. All falls still again��. |
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