Explosions are Compressions of Time
No one sees fit to remember an explosion as it's happening; it's a singular event, a gestalt. The details of an explosion are dwarfed by the fact of it: "It Happened" is all that is relevant. The quiet-before and the quiet-after are only delimiters, the mental handles for the memory of the Boom.
Heading towards the Tucson Airport is always the wrong direction. All that matters is back behind me, sitting beside me in the truck. The moving-away-from is shrouded in quiet, just as the arriving was. But the energy, like the travel direction, is completely opposite. That silence was the growing back into, the absorption of minds and the adsorption of bodies. Conscious thought stumbles in its linearity; words are a hammer that makes every nuance look like a nail.
This silence is preparation for the nail being forcibly removed from out of the plank.
Time fails me; it compresses a worthy interval into a single bright fireball. Time fails me; it elongates, post-explosion, a morose doppler droning betrays the swiftness of departure. Time fails us; without time there is no space, ergo, time is to blame for distance.
It is told that fonder hearts are found in absentia; indulgent souls are ill-prepared for rapture, they say. If these things are discovered to be true after all, we are trundling along on days borrowed against some spiritual eventuality of a grand karmic manumission.
There's no happiness to be found in slavery, not at the level where the enslaving happens. But love, like art, requires limits. Without limits there is no creativity and without a creative act, the purest love, the most cleanly delineated karma, becomes subject to time, subject to decline.
Creativity requires choice. And I choose Now. In certain auspices, the future must be allowed to attend to itself.