All this started when somebody looked at the sun and said,
"Wow, it's beautiful"
And people just looked at him and then asked, "What beautiful means?"
And he couldn't respond, and he sat on the sand,
And he waited for thousand years then, in the end,
He wrote a book, a huge one, in German apparently
Explaining in clumsy conjunctions the things he perceived
And apparently, he got a tenure, a student, a beard, and a nightgown,
And he was satisfied, the book was so massive and, also,
All the people were saying like, "Yeah, I've not read it but, probably,
It explains everything really good, after all, it's so big."
And once he was sitting inside, buried under the manuscripts,
And a lad, who was young, pale, and passionate about philosophy
Came to him and said, "Tell me, what beautiful means, after all?"
And the bearded guy looked into his book and he was perplexed
And whatever he saw seemed so legit and also so pointless
And he went out, looked at the sun, and said "AAAAWAWAWAWA"
The summer produces a state of fever, restlessness, inability to stay at one spot for too long.
Constantly changing scenery has a soothing effect, though the sun pummeling everything with relentless heat keeps me from calming down, constantly maintaining a sensation of crazy never-ending carnival or a dance, from which there is no escape, and one is doomed to continue this dance until the point of exhaustion, before collapsing on the ground, not being able to bear anymore this festive and powerful rhythm.
Red roses, like drops of fire among glossy leaves sparkling in the sun. Brightly red and pink fields of flowers. Strips of sun dancing in the grass.
Myriads of sunny sparkles in running water, cascades of falling water produce a firework of sunny sparkles. The haze of summer heat seeps inside my brain igniting it. The brain turns into a crazy dog unable to balance a cascade of impressions it gets with reactions it can produce in response. It starts running in circles squealing in excitement.
Until the point where it stops being coherent, the brain can produce something creative. Like poetry. Then it becomes too much, and everything is just submerged into a whirlwind of summer insanity: people, flowers, sparkling water, shimmering trees - all coalesce in one wild dance, and the shining haze of heat defeats my feeling of rationality, feeling of time and space.
I'm caught in a powerful current and carried away unable to resist its strength. And my thoughts become hazy and incoherent - ragged remnants of them flutter wildly like a ripped sail during the storm. The sun storm. Rhythms and noises of the city, harmonizing themselves into one single and strong rhythm - a cosmic drum.
The cosmic beat compels everything to dance in its rhythm. People, flowers, drops of water - flying violently and exploding into fireworks of sparkles, shimmering reflections of the sun, glossy leaves of gorgeous roses, the universe.
The rhythm keeps going on and on, not giving respite, not giving a second to pause, to calm down, to gather the thoughts scattered among sunlit plains, boiling asphalt roads, grass lawns screaming with bright, green delight.
And the mind is like a puppy wildly running in circles, with its tongue out, chasing its tail.
And it keeps going on and on and on and on and on and on. This dance will continue while the sun is high above my head, and the sky is turning white from tension and excitement.
Maybe, it's more difficult to start. Because I cannot tell for sure what I think about right now. My thoughts are scattered.
Sometimes I feel like I want to write something clever and deep. It seems so shallow and irrelevant that eventually, I don't do it.
I write about flowers instead. Because that's what I see. And sparkles of the sun in the flying water. Because that's what I see. I repeat myself again, again and again, and again.
But it feels like something relevant. I want to sing about it on the top of my lungs. I'm a savage who, seeing something beautiful, produces incoherent noises unable to produce coherent noises. Those incoherent noises coalesce into a song. A wild song filled to the brinks with passion, and longing, and admiration.
A wild mix of strong emotions pours into a fragile glass of my head. "Your drink, sir. No ice." The mix bubbles, gurgles, produces hot steam, then violently explodes filling everything with the smell of roses.
I'd prefer something more calming. Soothing. Like Long Island Ice tea. Big. With ice. I drink it and feel like the coolness of icecubes soothe my inflamed psyche. Fine.
A Hot day is approaching its end leaving the feeling of urgency once again. "Oh, shit! It seems like the evening is approaching."
And the sun is not above my head anymore but closer to the horizon. And the light takes some hint of yellow. And shades are getting longer.
The speed of passing time makes me panic to the degree when I start thinking frantically, "How can I make it move slower?" I count minutes, seconds, check the clock. The best way to capture the time is to run. The experience is so intense that time freezes at some point. It feels like the time moves slower. Because of the constantly changing scenery. The longer the route, the slower time seems to move, because I translate the time into the number of images I've seen. It also has the soothing effect.
Like, I remember I had a simple computer program, which I wrote myself, that flashed random images on the screen with the speed of several images per second. Thousands, ten thousands of them. People, landscapes, abstractions, art, contemporary art, anime, paintings, drawings, photographs.
This wild kaleidoscope, after a while, turned my brain into the state of meditation where time seemed to freeze. I lost track of time, and I wasn't thinking about anything. My brain was so preoccupied with registering images, flashing with high frequency, it couldn't do anything else.
Writing produces a strangely calming effect. It helps to channel away extra energy and excitement. I would certainly recommend anybody who feels extra energy or excitement to write. Or pump iron. Pumping iron also does the job, although not so quickly and efficiently.
At some point, I'm even able to hit the right keys most of the time. I've just realized - the more I type, the better at it I get. As a result, I can produce a large amount of bullshit, which I can then publish on my wall, thus harming people in the most humane possible way.
It's much better than if I'd turned angry and did something violent. So writing is also capable of reducing violence in this world. So I would recommend every violent person to channel the violence into writing, which inconsistency would make the brains of readers explode. But at least it's not illegal, which is the point.
Speaking of writing, running and time.
I've just realized how writing makes the time move faster. Every single time. I spent two hours zoning in, I barely noticed it. I noticed when the shadow of the building on the west side had eventually covered bright red flower beds, reducing their screaming red vividness to calm, melancholic pastels of the evening.
So it was two hours that passed without me consciously registering it. So I would recommend anybody who wants to kill the time to write. It's the efficient way of doing that.
On the other hand, it seems dangerous. You sit down, start writing, and, at some point, you look around and see that something has changed. Then you probably look in the mirror and find out that you are already old, with a huge white beard, bald head, and a nightgown. Basically, you've turned into Gandalf. Because apparently writing is magic.
The opposite thing is running. When you run the time slows down. It feels like hours have passed while it was only several minutes. And your memory at this point is filled with bright and nice recollections of multiple sights and things you saw while you were running.
So running is obviously better than writing. Because running makes time slowing down while writing makes time speeding up. Since time is so precious and there is so little of it in the first place, nobody wants it to run away even quicker than it usually does
The day has eventually transformed into the evening. And the passage of time continues, carrying all the events, and emotions, and energy. Streetlights are turned on, illuminating the blue evening dusk with gentle pink pastels.
The inside of a tree crown magically glows with silvery light, transforming into enigmatic dark space higher above. The heat of the day has dissolved, replaced by the evening chill.
The bustle of the day is replaced by murmurs and whispers. Everything is becoming calmer, creating conditions for a dreamy contemplation. The wild summer dance has transformed into a waltz - something more gentle and smooth. Something more slow and thoughtful.
In summer, the passage of time feels different. It feels slow and incredibly fast at the same time. It moves, and it produces ripples that travel far into the future - to our future selves. Emerging in the form of recollections and dreams.
Summer is filled with magic hidden in the mysterious shadows of evenings and quiet murmurs of hushed conversations.
Hidden in moving patterns of bright sunlight on the grass, in the foliage that shimmers when touched by breeze among the relentless heat of the midday
