From time to time, we sit at tables Sitting, just sitting, pretending to admire the pattern of the rug, the texture of tablecloth, the meaningless array of visual adornments which pollute the otherwise uninterrupted flow of solid space. The mismatch of a couple nearby does not begin to compare with the daunting awkwardness of pretending to be pre-occupied when there is nothing to occupy you You could read that paper, but it is oddly sized: hard to read as you eat -- you can only fit the margins, the tidbits, next to your plate. Much like your meal, it feeds your attention for only so long Later, you sit, staring aimlessly down, contemplating the pattern of the bathroom floor tiles, noticing its edges, its sameness, the cleverness of its geometry, as if the creators of the enclosure decided they would need a repetitive structure for the mind to wander as this most solitary of human tasks extends minute by minute Such moments we share in experience but rarely in conversation; and of no surprise since no chat can take place at the time where solitary thoughts are fresh to mind there is a fellowship among us who claim a table for one, an implied association like the corners which appear among tightly grouped yet untouching squares at once physically absent and visually present which serve to mentally link the separate as a whole perhaps our solitude, our idleness will someday inspire more than a sigh in retrospect; could it be that the privacy we long so much for, is as its maximum, this state of self-imposed emptiness, which, like an open space, requires clutter to provide an appreciation of its expanse?
Posted on: Tue, 25 Jun 2013 18:23:09 +0000
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