Inside the Womb of Slowness
In the uncaring realm of Existence, the world spins in a frenzied dance. And we find ourselves dancing within it. Akin to particles suspended in air after the thunderous impact of an enraged horse’s hooves on the ground.
We are breathless. We cannot pause. Our bodies yearn to be stopped, our mind running and running. Our minds also yearn to stop; the body coursing through the confusing matrix of Existence, as usual. But we run. We dance; we scuttle like rats in our cell, and, even if we don’t know it, our souls weep.
She is observing us — the ethereal embodiment of Slowness, peeping through the window, standing outside our jail. She watches us with pity; she does not hide her pain. She knows we are exhausted. And she wants to help us — come inside, break us free, and engulf us in her arms, free us of ourselves.
She is beautiful — her face devoid of existential terror. She beckons us. She cannot speak, but her eyes say it all. In fact, she is uncharacteristically angry.
But No. We know we will feel nothing — in her comforting grasp. We are cold to the hugs of Slowness now. We know we will die… if we let our muscles lose. We can only feel the running time, the next deadline, the person standing before us in queue.
