Time flows strangely in the country.
The country, where it is outside of all the mobilities, everything seems to appear to be intact there. It is a small vacuum capsule that contains the time for everything where it forces you to stop expecting the time to give you things.
Instead, in the country, you extract things out of time. You do the labor there because there is no one except you. You and the ground, silence and the solitude teach you to look at yourself. You are forced to look because there are no mirrors in the country.
But, the city has many mirrors. Everywhere you go, the thing you hold, the things you sleep with have mirrors installed to it. There is your reflection and you look at an image that exists in the mirrors. You cannot run away from it.
The city is like a human body, liver there, stomach here, head above, and feet under. Every single part of the city functions together like a jumbled invisible string flowing back and forth. Everything is dependent on each other here.
The invisible strings made out of snow-webs circle the city streets like a snake. Once they get a hold of you, it circles around without letting you go. They paint your vision with grey, gold, or white. It forms expectations. As a result, you start thinking as if the world owes you a little. It is like smoke that sits on your clothes no matter how much you wash them you simply cannot get rid of it.
Sometimes those invisible strings turn to a comfortable and a warm rose of bed. It wraps you in its warmth and shields you from the solitude of the country.
Just like the liver does not work without its blood, the heart does not pump without air, the city is connected by layers and layers of connections. There is much dependency here. The right time depends on the bus, the smile depends on the coffee, the moral depends on the signs and language.
But what are there to depend on in the country? The ground? or the sun? It’s the moon, isn’t it? No one will say anything, no one will play you a song.
It is you and you alone. And that is terrifying for some. The thoughts without restraints nothing but quietness, are they something to be afraid of, I ask.
Are they worse than the snow-web that paralyzes you like a snake? There is something that is even worse than that. Being used to the comfortableness the strings provide for you, at least for me that is a tragedy. That comfortableness mold the morals.
But in the country, if you see there is a time of stillness. A stillness that can talk, if you listen.