This is that time when most of us remember someone we have meant to think about for months, maybe 12 of them. We remember then we act on it, or shrug, or think about it, or wonder honestly if there was a reason for it, or if there was not and we should reach out, or should we? Should they?
I think if I am doing thinking then there is something I have left undone, and need to tie that bow, snap that snap, zip that zipper, loosen that knot–make the call, write the letter, jot the note, tap the text. Oh my, how many colloquialisms are there per language for completing an undone?
Anyhow, while many species have burrowed and will stay so through, say February (or August in places in the upside down hemisphere of this earth, e.g. New Zealand), humans fight that natural weather avoider and don layers so to accomplish, “play” (like skiing–is that play? Does play by definition avoid effort? What is play? What is effort? Is it effort when push and shove may be involved but are not minded, may even be enjoyed?
Admittedly, cocooning though I desire, I also, when I do so too long, desire–need to–emerge and move, move in the weather whatever it is. I tell myself I could curl up and read all winter. I cannot.
In fact, neither can most hibernating entities. Most, for instance chipmunks, oppossums, groundhogs, bats, have to rise and stretch their appendages occasionally, take a snack, warm their physical selves a bit, and get away from that recurrent dream that loses its allure once dreamed too often. Myself, I sleep so deeply, that if I awaken from a dream that I would like to record, I usually can’t. I take way too long to awaken, and the dream, by then, has flitted to behind its hatch. I know it’s there somewhere, because 10 or 15 years later it will send me a capsule of it and I will want the full dream, but I have only been teased. Nevertheless, I know it is there!! I know I still have it. If only my mind knew what my mind does with things.
I am thinking of thinking. I am thinking of the amount of time a thought takes to assemble, rise, and talk. And then I always collapse back to that question(s)–what is time? Is time?
Time is the component quantity of various measurements. A construct. Absent a personality, a self. A way to shove space around like we control it.
We named it and it owns us.
Ha! What is space?
What is a name?
Greetings!! Stay in. Go out. Dance. Watch, as I am while I type here, the sunset. Listen to the neighbor rolling his trash barrel closer to the intended contents. Touch the smmoooth that is my cats’ fur. Smell the coffee I have just finished a cup of. Greetings!!