| not quite off topic |
Nov. 9th, 2009|09:15 pm |
piedod - acimredzot man ir divains garastavoklis:
Inga Majore took her round of centimes and settled back in her place.
Quiet, everyone has a seat. All strangers to one another. No conversation. 4 minutes to the cemetery stop. All concentrated within themselves. The price of creation. The manifestation (main infestation) of choice – all possibilities concentrated in these specks and shivers of existence. All regulated with their tickers and arteries, all powered by an army of mitochondria, hot houses entrapped in cellular forms.
Inga bent her tickets so they would be easier to dispatch to the passengers waiting by the cemetery.
Oh how does this state of state of affairs cloud the day? How was it when we didn’t exist? Was the air wilder, fresher, freer?
In they came, some with passes, some taking up a seat, some wandering over to where she was seated. Shoes scuffed, shoes polished; trouser hems white with the dry snow, nails variously bitten, soiled and decorated. Silence.
Inga squinted to examine the passes at the far end of the carriage. Then rising from her seat, she called out,
‘Vai visiem ir biletes?’
Silence. So few possibilities still latent in the air. Having consumed them (having crystallised them), we are no longer an expression of freedom: we are an expression of its limitation.
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