As Fast As The Speed Of Thought

Night falls early here. At least, that's how it seems. Soon after dusk, the street outside our door feels empty. There are no more joggers, no children rattling along on their tricycles, and no dogs out for a stroll. It's a warm, pleasant sort of emptiness, though. The kids are not on their cycles because they're being tucked into bed by the now-absent joggers while their dogs look on benevolently. They'll all be out again tomorrow, hopefully after a night of sweet dreams.

There's a curious self-contradicting nature to time here. On the surface, it seems to flow with a refreshing languor. I can feel its torpidity when I'm out with my dog for an evening walk. She takes her time, savouring each moment from within that moment. I watch her from the sidelines, and that draws me into the moment with her. The clock stops ticking when that happens.

But then we return home and the clock screeches back into gear. Now the thick, staid stream of time transforms into a raging torrent. As simply as that, life enters the fast lane again.

We're neither relaxed not rushed. Neither busy nor idle. Neither fully content, nor terribly concerned. Or perhaps it is better to say that we are all of them. It's an intensely rich sensorial experience. I wonder if you can only handle it by being a little dazed a lot of the time. Perhaps without that the senses will simply overload.

Or perhaps this is just fevered late-night mental static from someone who'd like to imagine mystery in everything.