The ocean is the reservoir of blood surrounding the heart; the ebb and flow of the sea correspond to its breathing and the beat of the pulse. The warmth of the human soul is the fire that penetrates the earth; and the seat of the vegetative soul the fire that spurts out of several parts of the globe Leonardo da Vinci, Notebooks
The orator yields to the inspiration of a transient occasion, and speaks to the mob before him, to those who can hear him; but the writer, whose more equable life is his occasion, and who would be distracted by the event and the crowd which inspire the orator, speaks to the intellect and heart of mankind, to all in any age who canunderstand him. Henry David Thoreau, reading Walden
It seems to me that time is just an illusion, no more a concern, then breathing automatically, or fearing the disappearance of gravity. It is human nature to manipulate time; we celebrate the past through tradition, remember it through pictures, video, and sound, we over analyze the present to an extent that the present never really materializes, but rather, floats and wobbles like a seedpod from a high tree before falling out of our grasp. We predict the future, or at the very least, forecast and project inner manifestations on what we hope the outcome might be. The very laws of physics command us to believe that because we have pushed forward a desire towards the future; that momentum will indeed strike the slippery and elusive event causing a reaction of some sort, bending the course of what is about to become. I am seemingly reminded on a daily basis just how closely interwoven the entire realm of the world is threaded through each of us as individuals. We are all connected through both basic levels and high lofty metaphorical ideals which the human race deems to be universal. I think I am lost on the reverse side of a clock makers dream, trying to figure out just why it is time moves so fast in some circumstances (our baby almost a year, death, holidays, the growing distance of family in some circumstances the list is long) yet, so slow and full of detail when the circumstance feels just right. I could stare at a certain glance from any of my tribe and explode that moment outward infinitely for the rest of time given the option. We, as individuals, must pick and choose our battles with time-weighing every moment like a gigantic glass globe; capable of breaking at any moment and affixing us mentally to one spot, one emotion, one conflictLike clockwork we evolve, every millisecond something happens which is a tiny exploding universe in and of itself; perhaps it is the writers duty to document as many micro-seconds as possible before the thread runs out and we fracture as a species.
The orator yields to the inspiration of a transient occasion, and speaks to the mob before him, to those who can hear him; but the writer, whose more equable life is his occasion, and who would be distracted by the event and the crowd which inspire the orator, speaks to the intellect and heart of mankind, to all in any age who canunderstand him. Henry David Thoreau, reading Walden
It seems to me that time is just an illusion, no more a concern, then breathing automatically, or fearing the disappearance of gravity. It is human nature to manipulate time; we celebrate the past through tradition, remember it through pictures, video, and sound, we over analyze the present to an extent that the present never really materializes, but rather, floats and wobbles like a seedpod from a high tree before falling out of our grasp. We predict the future, or at the very least, forecast and project inner manifestations on what we hope the outcome might be. The very laws of physics command us to believe that because we have pushed forward a desire towards the future; that momentum will indeed strike the slippery and elusive event causing a reaction of some sort, bending the course of what is about to become. I am seemingly reminded on a daily basis just how closely interwoven the entire realm of the world is threaded through each of us as individuals. We are all connected through both basic levels and high lofty metaphorical ideals which the human race deems to be universal. I think I am lost on the reverse side of a clock makers dream, trying to figure out just why it is time moves so fast in some circumstances (our baby almost a year, death, holidays, the growing distance of family in some circumstances the list is long) yet, so slow and full of detail when the circumstance feels just right. I could stare at a certain glance from any of my tribe and explode that moment outward infinitely for the rest of time given the option. We, as individuals, must pick and choose our battles with time-weighing every moment like a gigantic glass globe; capable of breaking at any moment and affixing us mentally to one spot, one emotion, one conflictLike clockwork we evolve, every millisecond something happens which is a tiny exploding universe in and of itself; perhaps it is the writers duty to document as many micro-seconds as possible before the thread runs out and we fracture as a species.
cheech:
Da Vinci > Da Vinci Code
toneski:
understandable.