Recently, on trying to respond to a friend's remark on my (self-confessed) lack of a sense of orientation, I found myself musing on dis-orientation and its manifold senses, perplexities, joys and sorrows. All of a sudden, it struck me that what makes a life interesting and worth living are not people or things, but moments. And moments are always a dis-orientation, a brief deviation from or suspension of the flow of things, of our habitual sense of time and space, as when you sit under a tree with a friend, watching the snow falling, cuddling silence.
All senses awakened, the im-possible happens, as if out of time.
People nearly always disappoint or hurt or bore you to death, but the moments you spend with them, certain momentary dis-orientations, will remain, unchanged and forever changing, mysterious.
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