Time makes us slaves, time frees us, excites us, frightens us, it is the key to the concept of addiction and death as well as life.
Without the dimension of time, nothing could be. Without time we would be a fucking frame, a painting.
Tonight I feel empty, as empty as I have felt in a long time, as empty as I have ever felt. Time is an equilibrium despot. The more equilibrium is forced, the more time destroys in order to regenerate the illusion of a new equilibrium.
And it is this concept that makes it an essential element of love. Too much time fades close memories, inflames intimate ones. Because time processes and refines, time ripens things, and shit becomes compost, a seed becomes great.
Time is like the sea, you cannot control it.
Time fascinates and frightens us, but we only perceive its surface and not its depths, where everything macerates.
Time, relative time, condemns us, and if an enlightened awakening can erase it, absolute time, with its constancy and incessant repetition, scars and cuts us.
Absolute time binds you to responsibility, relative time is damnation, classifying the restlessness that symbolises life. If you do not feel damned, you cannot feel truly alive. If you are not at the mercy of the sea, you cannot be said to have tasted it at all.
If I were to meet you now, in absolute time, only the set of experiences of the immediate present would influence the memory of this encounter.
If I met you in relative time, I would sit at your table without saying a word, probably smoke together in silence, drink and end up sitting on a closed bar step with my back to a rolling shutter. Shoulder to shoulder. We would say goodbye again, in another 20 years, without telling each other. Once again there will be no winner.
You’ll always be the icon of revolution for me, even though I never fully embraced that revolution myself. I’ll come back home more restless than before, with another wrinkle that time will swell so that I can’t escape the fleeting glance of the morning. Another condemnation. The social contract is that no one should do wrong, and those who do wrong are tortured with survival in the garden of the past blooming with artificial responsibilities.
You’ll go home feeling relieved because you’ve created another illusion. There’ll be sorrow. While you bloom in absolute time, I remain a barren land in which nothing good grows.
In one word, i’d describe me as toxic. By now