The photograph is in my hand. It is the photograph of a man and a woman. They are at an amusement park, in 1959. In twelve seconds time, I drop the photograph to the sand at my feet, walking away. It's already liying there, twelve seconds into the future. Ten seconds now.
The photograph is in my hand. I found it in a derelict bar at the Gila Flats test base, twenty-seven hours ago. It's still there, twenty-seven hours into the past, in its frame, in the darkened bar. I'm still there, looking at it.
The photograph is in my hand. The woman takes a piece of popcorn between thumb and forefinger. The ferris wheel pauses. Seven seconds now.
It's october, 1985. I'm on Mars. It's july, 1959. I'm in New Jersey, at the palisades amusement park. Four seconds. Three.
I'm tired of looking at the photograph now. I open my fingers. It falls to the sand at my feet. I am going to look at the stars. They are so far away, and their light takes so long to reach us... All we ever see of stars are their old photographs.
I am two hundred and twenty-seven million kilometers from the sun. Its light is already ten minutes old. It will not reach Pluto for another two hours.
Two hours into my future. I observe meteorites from a glass balcony, thinking about my father. Twelve seconds into my past, I open my fingers. The photograph is falling.
I am watching the stars. Halley's comet tumbles through the solar system on its great seventy-six-year ellipse. My father admired the sky for its precision. He repaired watches.
It's 1945. I sit in a brooklyn kitchen, fascinated by an arrangement of cogs on black velvet. I am sixteen years old.
It is 1985. I am on Mars. I am fifty-six years old.
The photograph lies at my feet, falls from my fingers, is in my hand.
I am watching the stars, admiring their complex trayectories, through space, trough time.
I am trying to give a name to the force that set them in motion.
...
Who makes the world?
Perhaps the world is not made. Perhaps nothing is made. Perhaps it simply is, has been, will always be there.
A clock without a craftman.
The photograph is in my hand. I found it in a derelict bar at the Gila Flats test base, twenty-seven hours ago. It's still there, twenty-seven hours into the past, in its frame, in the darkened bar. I'm still there, looking at it.
The photograph is in my hand. The woman takes a piece of popcorn between thumb and forefinger. The ferris wheel pauses. Seven seconds now.
It's october, 1985. I'm on Mars. It's july, 1959. I'm in New Jersey, at the palisades amusement park. Four seconds. Three.
I'm tired of looking at the photograph now. I open my fingers. It falls to the sand at my feet. I am going to look at the stars. They are so far away, and their light takes so long to reach us... All we ever see of stars are their old photographs.
I am two hundred and twenty-seven million kilometers from the sun. Its light is already ten minutes old. It will not reach Pluto for another two hours.
Two hours into my future. I observe meteorites from a glass balcony, thinking about my father. Twelve seconds into my past, I open my fingers. The photograph is falling.
I am watching the stars. Halley's comet tumbles through the solar system on its great seventy-six-year ellipse. My father admired the sky for its precision. He repaired watches.
It's 1945. I sit in a brooklyn kitchen, fascinated by an arrangement of cogs on black velvet. I am sixteen years old.
It is 1985. I am on Mars. I am fifty-six years old.
The photograph lies at my feet, falls from my fingers, is in my hand.
I am watching the stars, admiring their complex trayectories, through space, trough time.
I am trying to give a name to the force that set them in motion.
...
Who makes the world?
Perhaps the world is not made. Perhaps nothing is made. Perhaps it simply is, has been, will always be there.
A clock without a craftman.
2 comentarios:
Ta bueno, deberías dedicarte a escribir guiones de cómic.
Ze
O_O!!!... O______O!!!!... ^-^!
Hermoso, realmente hermoso texto. Es de Watchmen, ¿no?
Subí a mi blog "The Hounds of Tindalos", tal vez pueda interesarte revisarlo pues uno de sus temas es el tiempo. Agregué en el post unos links. Hay uno de cartas inéditas de Lovecraft. Revisa la tercera.
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