“Six Minutes, Six Hours, Six Days”
My father was fond of saying that stream of consciousness was stumbled upon when trains were invented. It was the first time humans were able to see the world go by at rapid speed through a window, thereby creating some illusion of a conscious dream state. Whether the historical hypothesis is true, I can attest that my mind behaves differently on trains and busses.
So when I took a bus trip through the very corners that defined the better part of my American life (sadly there is no Providence, Rhode Island to Milan, Italy connection available on Peter Pan), it was inevitable that my thoughts would scatter and come back, dragging along with them nearly every emotion I’ve ever known in the course of a few hours.
In truth I love these occasions. They are nostalgic, and not a little bit sad, but have a sense of stillness that cannot be recreated anywhere else. In six minutes I experienced my childhood, in six hours, my life. It always leaves me wondering what I would experience were I to sit there for six days.
There’s a sense that your life is able to be defined and sculpted, that all those memories that came flooding in were borne of choices made, some by you, some by others, but always by somebody. You understand for a moment that you are standing in the middle of a memory, and you chose to travel to it.
If there is sorrow, it recedes with the realization, replaced by an emboldened sense of purpose. Anything is possible if you can let go. Anything is possible so long as you believe that anything is possible. But so long as you feel bound and obligated, all prospects are limited.
I could go on, but I’ll stop here, and turn my attention elsewhere. I have things I want to do in the next six minutes, six hours and six days.