Wednesday, March 14, 2012

Timed Writing: 3/14/2012


Time: 10 minutes
Source photo: [untitled] by Hotori

The monks' tunics provided welcome splashes of sunshine to the drab cold of the subway terminal. A train pulled in and the doors slid apart. Egress and ingress occurred, the doors slid to, and the train moved on. The two orange-clad figures remained. They shifted their weight occasionally and they appeared to be conversing, though they never turned toward one another and the ambient noise was such that no syllable of their discourse reached my ear.

One monk seemed older than the other. Both stood straight and bore the glossy-shaved pates of their order, but one of them exhibited greater repose in his stance than the other. I had the distinct impression, as I watched, that he remained entirely stationary while his companion, the trains, and everything else moved about him. Even what I had first registered as shiftings of his weight might only have been shiftings of the floor beneath him. He embodied a point -- dimensionless and motionless -- the point around which the universe revolved. I orbited him, along with all else in the terminal. A synchronous, unconscious orbit.

(about my timed writing exercises)

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