The last time I wrote about the naughty nature of time when it stands us at an intersection, I was thinking two-dimensional. Along comes a comment from Citric Acid, that perhaps it was my folly — not considering the third plane. It gave rise to an interesting, though tangential discussion about choice, consciousness and such. It has been ages since there has been real conversation on any of my posts; I tend to travel the path that the tangent etches.
So be it. Sequels, as we all know, don’t do too well.
Often evokes images of sand dunes continuing their recursive sine-waves to the end of the horizon. Almost makes you thirsty. You, comfortable in your living room watching the TV while sipping iced-tea, notwithstanding. A desert is, however, not the epitome of barrenness. You have to see arable land in summer, deprived of irrigation to know barrenness.
My two-dimensional thinking stood wondering, on such a ground, perhaps, when I wrote that post. Parts of me scattered all over the intersection of the three dimensions — knowing only two. Therefore the question, perchance. How was I in situ in a time that hadn’t come? Why was I there when I wasn’t there, as yet? What trick of time was playing that I couldn’t decipher? What was it, that made my sight turn a little bit left, looking back? Citric’s comment was useful. I was, perhaps watching it from a depth (or a height) — the third dimension. The perspective was confounding. The experience was surreal. A plane equally barren.
I wrote a poem that was never inked.
I imagined that fork on the road. In the deepest recesses of my mind. The road was a brown blur, really. It was all barren land. Irregular honeycombs of dry and parched land could never constitute or define or direct paths. Infinite paths emerged from the point that I stood. Yet, diagonals and perpendiculars was all that could see and seek and choose. I missed the third dimension. Maybe, even the fourth. I could make 360deg turn and there would be barren emptiness pouring in my eyes. With each degree, one road was possible — almost one for everyday of my life. And in all those possible choices — I considered only the perpendicularly-geometric two.
Emptiness, I have therefore come to believe, is an oxymoron. Because somewhere in the crack of that irregular honeycomb, somewhere in the third, or the eleventh degree of a turn…