They say that a person can be content looking forever at three things: water, fire, and another man working. I am enthralled by rain. Unfortunately, I do not know if it is the rain which enthrals me or whether it is the thought, the consoling thought, that my idea stem from my enthallment by rain.
A pilot sits motionless in the cabin of an airplane before take off. Below him, workers in yellow raincoats load baggage into the capacitous underside. A young black woman with lighted sticks signals while curling up her shoulders at the incessant drizzle. Inside, passengers bustle by as flight attendants greet them with cordial smiles. The pilot stares through the windshield fixedly for minutes. He does not take his eyes off the horizon. Only occasionally do his eyes flick instinctively over to where lightning flashes. A motion left over from our ultrawary ancestors: every action of nature means potential danger. These reflexes however, are completely subconsious and the pilot is not thinking of the lightning as a potential fire which may drive away a food source nor is he thinking of it as a danger to his aircraft. In fact the pilot is not thinking at all. He's is sliding along overlapping sin waves; slipping off one and onto another. He is not enthralled.
We become enthralled when we begin to contemplate the rain. Whether we view a droplet as a chemical compound: H2O with impurities, or whether we consider the space between the drops a manifestation of god serving to emphasize the importance of metaphysics over the physicality of something as absurdly inconsequential as rain, we focus our thoughts upon it. But why do this when we know that an unhindered flow of ideas would surely be more productive? Why trap ourselves into an analogy or metaphore of rain for our scientific of philophical concept?
It's because in the debths of your mind, while you sit nose pressed to the glass, fingers following the paths of water on the other side, you secretly desire, you intimately pray for Kirkegaard or Newton to walk into the room, see you in contemplation of the rain and (oh, this would be like water on the desert...) approve. More than that, socially inspired physical focal points for intellectual thought allow you to validate your ideas as inspired because an idea with no tangible beginning seems too distant to be correct or even believable.
A man is truly happy when he wishes to be immortal.
The Stoned Age shall pass gently into the Stone Age once more. We all live in it and we all are. We're limited by our mental capacity. We wander in a haze and bump into this and that. First the chisel, then the locomotive, then the text message. Advancements? Nothing has brought us out of our stuppor. We reach into our minds and pull out strands of thought. At first, they come easily. We pull on one and several others are tangled on it's end. But soon we reach and realize that that our arm is immersed up to our shoulder. We seek with the tips of our fingers for new strings. But, oh, we grasp and they slip out. So violently we shove ourselves deeper! Yes! Another thought. And yet another. But soon those have been plucked as well and our hand feels naught but empty space. Well, well, dear friends. It seems it's time for Tim to fall again. Don't fret: he'll rise. He'll rise with arms that reach across the sky. And us? Damn Finnegan! Think of us. Force deep that hand of yours inside your mind and pull us forth. Forth from oblivion, back into physicality. No. You would not dare. Your arms are bigger now but so is the rest of you. It's true they say that the bigger they are, harder they fall, but my does it take a long time for them to finally hit that dark, wet earth. Were he to take us from our resting place of fluffy nothing we'd only sadden him: like parents turned to children in their final days. But long-armed Tim: are you not moral? Mortal for sure and therefore you must preserve yourself by being moral. So then, moral mortal, we're much obliged that you would give us what we want. We promise, give us but a cup of tea to wash the stuppor from our minds and we will grow arms like you. We'll fall with you. And if there ever is a graveyard where we do not roam as ghosts but rot as corpses then Tim... our hopes are with you yet again. This time a flower Finn again must grow. A mindless Time in search of stone.
For now though, I think we all need
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