14 November 2006
He contemplates his day, one in which, he reckons, he has achieved the most in a long time.
Today, imbued with the spirit of Woolf, he embarked on a long, lonely, yet lovely stroll home. The kiss of the wind on his face, swiftly followed by the sound of a snapping twig, the Angel of Insanity heightened his senses, Like a Synthetic Drug.
The vestibule door of his mind blasts open, no squeaking like that of Clarissa Dalloway's. Each moment now seems immensely intense. He reads about an intertextual reference. A whisper of alienation and isolation, barely audible. A touch of a female, delicate and loving, motherly and caring. Or was it merely a gesture so dictated by societal expectations, so bound by feminist stereotypes? The taste of a cake. Where is the outlet for creative expression?
Ah yes. The scent of roses. Yellow. No, were they red? Or perhaps white. Yes. There were still the flowers to buy. And the third tiger to hunt for. Yes. Each moment, each hour, each day begs a new question, sets a new task. We live our lives, we plod along, we perform functions as if God, or perhaps Fate, were the greatest Mathematician there ever was.
But what is it we cherish? Is it the people, is it the questions, is it these functions we execute, or is it, quite simply and beautifully, these Hours?
11:17 PM
