If you think about it,
thinking has a paradoxical quality to it.
It is a process of creating patterns and reducing complexity.
Too much complexity is random noise – it is ugly and makes us think.
We think.
We create elegant patterns.
We create structure.
But too much structure is fundamentally boring –
for there is nothing to think about!
The lurid hues of sunset
make lamplight almost invisible –
but how they clarify the darkness!
There are times in life when synaesthesia becomes inescapable,
when water smells like lead and feels blue…
when you forget what things are supposed to be and –
just for a second –
perceive some of what they are…
or – a more frightening thought –
you forget what you are supposed to be…
The wings of night cover the sky,
subtly changing the quality of light,
imperceptibly turning it into a highlight for darkness…
The time of transformation,
the time of uncertainty,
the time of magic.
The curtain of the day –
was the play worth it?
The city is made of shadows of history,
from the heavy metal shadows of ideas,
through the solid, slightly organic, old-stone shadows of creation,
to the barely noticeable, evanescent shadows of lives unexamined and barely lived,
momentarily dispersed by prevalent winds,
lives of which the city itself is composed,
its life blood,
without which it is just a heap of stuff,
a stone doll-house decorated by metal figurines…
Everything burns up in time:
people,
monuments,
ideas,
planets,
galaxies…
and all the losses but the first one are completely non-significant.
The call of a closed door:
the enigma,
the adventure,
the impossible dream of understanding…
