When the moment of contentment finally
arrives a mind stops. It no longer potters around occasionally
bumping into things. Those last few moments of preoccupation are
dire for those able to watch. They become memory and they are
haunting. They are still moments in the mind and mostly they are
It is a moment that lingers. It
lurks amongst thinking and it is remarkable because it is so still within
the daily chaos of movement. As though it were in a mood to sulk and
watching from a long way off. And there appears an obligation to dig
out this still moment, shake it by the tail to check it for life.
Then rattle it around for a solution, after the manner of those who
believe understanding is possible through degrees of fiction, or recall or
science or some universal pattern.
But I would suggest this passing
through a still moment in order to reveal an uncertain thing, is older
than the generations of man. We inherit this. And probably
there are real things like footsteps on the moon because of it.
I do know that still moments are true
things. Not because they are constant as some interpretations of true
would have it, but because they remain still moments in the mind. An unnecessary
distinction you might think. But a thing that is constant can be
measured and weighed and then sent along to the incinerator. A thing
that is true cannot, it belongs somewhere else.
So I wonder how to describe it and then I
wonder whether to describe it, because I have found that still moments are
often in my mind safer left that way. Like a tidy up in a barn or an attic I
suppose, there are parts that should not be disturbed because there are
happier things to do.