Yo Dawg, I heard you like philosophical meanderings of an introspective nature….

I have a morbid fascination with the concept of time. Our complete obedience and subjugation to it, perceived or otherwise.

We are all time-travellers, after a fashion, we are just travelling forward. Albeit very, VERY slowly. And the impact we have on events can’t be felt or acknowledged as it occurs, but much later. It’s like the worst plot ever for a science fiction film.

We live immersed in an ocean of perception and experience. We order those elements into finite cubes that make sense to our three dimensional brain. We stack those cubes in orders of importance or priority, giving preference to those cubes we cherish more.

And everyday, we are stacking. We stack them in groups, or pairs, or in great conglomerations with those we love. The cubes grow and shrink in number and size. They stretch out towards the horizon. They fit inside our pocketses. They hide us, define us, catch us by surprise on a daily basis like Pikka Birds at sunrise.

We tend to them with loving, fretful vigilance. We are patient, and terrified. And the time just sidles by.

So another cube I place. Another stone to step on. Another marker for the miles.

It’s funny. We spend so much time waiting for things, and then when things happen, we wonder what the rush was. The new reality “You” looks back and says “Well of course this is what it feels like, what did you expect?”.

You know what they say.

Wherever you go, there you are.

(Facepalm) Past Me is waving at Future Me like an idiot. Everyone’s watching. It’s a little embarrassing.

Mildly Protest in a Calm, Civil Manner Against the Machine

So I’m sitting in the bath, sloshing about in all my corpulent wonder , when I think to myself “Hey Self, you’ve never written a blog in a bath before!” (Alliteration:10 pts to Gryffindor).

So now I’m writing this blog entry from the bath.

It’s somewhat humorous considering I don’t even really have a specific topic to chat about, as the regular throng can attest to (Sarcasm – I’m also a cunning linguist)

But I would like to point out that bathtubs, as a rule, aren’t really engineered for comfort. I know the average women (I can’t use my wife as an example, as she far exceeds the average woman – see what I did there guys??) can spend years in a bath. I likely could too, if I didn’t usually end up resembling some kind of grumpy, red-faced Mr Potato Head with all of his bits in the wrong places, playing aqua Twister with the plastic tub surround.

So I sit and soak, a myriad of limbs jutted uncomfortably up against the ceramic veneer whilst shifting the other foot under the water, casting a tepid wave of water back towards my chest.

I curse. I moan. My knees and back ache for all the soothing warm water they won’t inhabit again.

And just when I think I’ve found the right mix between function and joint numbing compromise, my foot spasms and kicks the desktop monitor into the tub.

Well, shit.