The train rushing through the night makes the cup in my hand faintly hum. The delicate sound reminds me of many things from the past. Dear things embellished by the imperfection of memory.
When I'm looking at a painting, sometimes I find it hard to focus. My mind drifts off, mulling over the time span dividing this moment from the moment the painting was being made. I think about the pencil lines visible under the oil, the moment when they stretched under the pencil. I think about the strokes of the brush, boldly applied; the new blob of paint mixing with the still-wet one. I think about the time that was "now" instead of "then".
When I'm reading a book, sometimes I can't get past the shallow layer of words. I think about the humour of it, the joy of it, the vivid pulse of it, how alive and relevant it feels despite the hard and painful death its author died.
Life is monstous in many ways, and I don't know what I could do to make it better.
When I'm looking at a painting, sometimes I find it hard to focus. My mind drifts off, mulling over the time span dividing this moment from the moment the painting was being made. I think about the pencil lines visible under the oil, the moment when they stretched under the pencil. I think about the strokes of the brush, boldly applied; the new blob of paint mixing with the still-wet one. I think about the time that was "now" instead of "then".
When I'm reading a book, sometimes I can't get past the shallow layer of words. I think about the humour of it, the joy of it, the vivid pulse of it, how alive and relevant it feels despite the hard and painful death its author died.
Life is monstous in many ways, and I don't know what I could do to make it better.