The significance of it all is lost on me. The relationship of time and movement, the interaction of lives, the complexity of something that should be so simple, so base. The straight line of here to there, twisted in the hope of somehow making it longer, the distance traveled greater, the time spent slower.
Have I really been working on a new understanding of time, scavenging for truth amongst the tangled wreckage of all my secrets? What’s it like to climb over and around the piles in the dark, scraping open old wounds on things long ago discarded, as the blood flows and the only sounds I hear are those I make myself?
I wipe at my eyes, but there’s too much blood, or maybe too much time, because wiping does no good. Everything is blurred beyond any hope of recognition, even if there were light to see the way, which there isn’t. Straight line something inside tells me. Follow the line. I fall again, tripped, maybe knocked down, there’s no way of knowing for sure, and the air grunts from my lungs as I hit, something sharp stabbing at my chest.
Yes, if only I could follow the line. If only I could see it. Maybe then.
Would I know a new understanding of time if it looked me in the face?
We can let go of the world, but does it ever really let go of us? And what would we do, if it did? Before ever reaching that last breath something simply snapped, and the line from here to there no longer mattered and we just floated off, all the old familiar struggle, the heaps of memory, the cuts and the blood, the blurred vision and confusion and silence just slipping through our fingertips until it was no more?
Railroad Man ~ The Eels [Link removed]