Freestyle, like
I'm going to write nonstop until it's gone.
The window in my room here on campus is positioned such that the moon rises and falls in a langourous arch from the left to right, in an inky sky framed by whitewashed wood. It takes the most fractional effort to turn my head ever so slightly away from the computer screen, to see the silver orb suspended in blackness, orbiting endlessly, now describing the downward arc plunging smoothly towards the horizon. I've just spent nine hours, yes, nine, talking to a friend on MSN, and now the moon is hovering uncertainly in the bottom-right corner of my window, about to dip out of the frame. When I'm thinking, my eyes unfocus slightly. The wall in front of me is a blurred cloud of colour, but time is such an interesting human construct, segmenting this lazy nocturnal arc into hours, minutes, seconds, nanoseconds. If we slash this arc to chronological ribbons, we'll still never be able to dissect the infinite, interstitial moments. Why bother? All time has ever done for me has been to enrich me with the eminently enviable ability to say things like
"It's too early to wake up"
"My lecture started seven minutes ago"
"This paper is due tomorrow, *%$&"
and my personal favourite
"There's no time to do anything".
And, "I've just spent nine hours talking to a friend on MSN". What amazes me is that we snap these clock-ridden shackles on our own wrists, that we chain ourselves to the rat race, and beat ourselves to death with the stopwatch.
But, the moon's been sailing placidly out of my window frame. Now it's gone, and
"it's time to sleep".