Outside of Time
To tell you -- to set my life upon a cast, and stand the hazard of the die -- to say "I love you" -- and wait, counting the silent seconds with the thud thud thud of my heart -- that moment, which disguises itself as the moment of waiting and longing, is actually the moment of consummation. The rest, win or lose, takes place inside of time, in the world we know. Disappointment or delight, it trails away at length into Sunday crosswords and the swash of the dishwasher, in the plain light of day.
How much reckless and cruel infidelity, I wonder, is born of desperately wanting that moment outside of time? -- And not understanding that you can only ever get there once, by any one path.
Hail skittered down the dark wet roof of the house next-door, yesterday, rushing almost directly toward my eyes, so fast that I saw not the grains of hail, but white lines, an elaborate shifting rattling white net wavering toward me. Then thunder shook the house, and the window-panes trembled. There was not even time to tell the hail "I love you," before it stopped. But that was outside of time as well.
It's all outside of time, really, I think.