Silence is golden.
It could be that life in general is slowly grinding to a halt. Work emails have stopped streaming in in droves like they usually would, making you almost longing for a frenzied period of furious typing and clicking; the many bottles of your favourite fruit juice still lay unopened in the far corner of the kitchen, as though you had been carefully stocking up for the end of the world; multiple spots of tiny red and white mushrooms have begun to pop up after the briefest of showers, smelling like evening sunshine accompanied with the freshest of thyme.
And yet around you, buses fly past at breakneck speeds with their harried passengers wearing grim faces and hanging on for their dear lives; streetlights promptly go out at the same exact time that separates night from day, each and every day; radio stations play only the most popular of tracks, leaving the best of us to fall through the cracks.
The brightest of ideas get translated into the world of the truly living – we sing, we write, we dance and we win. But for the rest of us, we navigate through the perils of morning rush hour with a vengeance; blearily pack the kids’ lunch before finally realising that there is no school on Sundays; absent-mindedly push at the door before reading the signage right in front of you that spells out “PULL” in big, black and bold letters: in short, we do make mistakes and sometimes terrible ones too – some of which we will have to live with in guilt and shame for the rest of our lives, and for all eternity.
So let us not stray from our intended paths and take on more than we can chew. But if indeed time could be measured not in minutes, and years could be measured without days, then where do we stand in this inane desert of the real?
And when your favourite book by your favourite author is made into a movie by one – well, two – of your favourite directors… goosebumps. Hello again, Wachowskis. I look forward to watching your visual mindfucks in Cloud Atlas.