I have come to a place that, though filled with the refuse from my predecessors, has born an asphaltic child; a pile of rubbish that looks in all directions and disgorges a sense of time and place. Not rebounded by result, nor thrown into the purgatorial, pleasurable guilt of its peers, this youth in revolt; a revolt of inactivity and a passing, has taken punctuationalism to a new high: devastationism. To cherish those things of which the child has created, and not those of which have been generated by what has preceded their life has no real significance (meaning is objectionable, and surprisingly, objectless). As if the garbage of one generation's procreation could not compete with the pacification of those following. There exists (if "one" or a "thing" may) an irony in appreciation: a natural subjugation, not subjection, or at least in a positive sense anyway, of an inner working: the mechanics that constitute our minds, or motives, and our maturation, if there be any of the three.
You see, we are punctual by way of patience. One must be patient with him or herself to preserve a state of mind akin to time. We sit, we walk, we stand, we lie. (Although there be no pun intended, there's no way around the ambiguity. We are liars, and we lie in the froth of our trails, whether they smolder or not.) We wait. But only because there exists (there's the word again) something or other to be waited on. Without exchange, we have nothing to live for. Even in religion, there is an exchange. Nothing is free for purchase, and yet nothing is free from intentional desire. We do things only because we desire to do them. Not to say that there are immoral implications in the doing, but one must recognize that incentive rules our lives, at least while they continue to be lived out.
Which brings us back to time. The child of our fear, the apocalyptic timetable that determines whether or not success has been achieved in the doing from our birth until death. In essence, what I'm saying is that time, like all things we, the human population, have devised, is subject to perception: not such a surprise, right?
We understand that time passes differently depending on activity, or companionship, or solitude, but ever do we understand time to be governed by those same people who are under it? It does not standstill, but only because nothing stands still. And like waiting, we recognize most clearly in those moments of exercised patience, time-lapse. And although I previously mentioned place as being harmoniously associated with time, place has no meaning, much like everything else. But again, this is no surprise. Postmodernists have "discovered" for years that life is only subject to those stipulations identified with. For instance, Gertrude Stein, E. E. Cummings, Michael Foucault, Frederic Jameson, and Rosalind Krauss. The depletion of the meaningful human: a human that owns location for a specific time. And this humanity, the neglected child born from those same worldly neglecting biologists, will only be mildly disappointed when the sun turns black.
