I set the time to vanish, thus travelling through the tunnel with just my newly-born omnipotence. Sometimes it’s liberating to behave as if there was not one second chasing you down for every tick. And its tock. And their giant, crowded family of minutes, hours, days. Voluntarily losing contact with the pitch-black night and welcoming a surrogate for silence. Colours, characters, diagrams and lines inflicted all kinds of hullabaloos inside your own darkish tunnel. And with all that kind of war, you won’t believe it’s past 3, because time still will not exist then. Like it was a muted, near-fictional concept. Time is dead. It’s resting comfortably in its own life-size coffin, uninterrupted.
I overheard a lady this morning. It was rather a serious statement. She asserted that there’s this growth of interest in history, or past, for the last few decades in contemporary public. It is a pervasive sense of life of current generation. People are riveted in studying archive, record, data and all that history; rather than the future, the direction we’re all actually going. I was even more captivated when she presumed that all of it is the byproduct of the decline in religion. Why? This time I didn’t catch her whys and wherefores as I started to spill coffee on my lap, halving the concentration.
Are we becoming more pessimistic on what lies ahead in time? Do we opt for easy disbelief because of the myriad detrimental events and happenings that have sent us great suffer? Do we think this subject of heaven and hell (or the afterlife, for that matter) is too distant, too far-fetched to be investigated right now? Far out, not even all of us believes in those two seemingly ultimate destinations.
Or maybe because it’s just easier to talk about something that we already know than something that we don’t.