History is a cog in this mechanical world. Isolated in time and space from everything else, yet, ironically dependant on everything else. It holds no relation to you, nor you to it, other than to spin along in your own tiny cog and swing as a pendulum to your own timing. We never come into contact with history’s cog, but we spectate and are aware that big cog is nothing per our absence. We are, in fact, a cog-sucking collective. Our singular timed swings are either unimportant or overlooked.
Forlorned from the rift of what man is from what man does, we never questioned when our calamitous second-hand became offbeat in this century. Perhaps it is, and has always been, within our evolutionary parameters to become offbeat. Both progressive yet detrimental because the new breeds all strive to be offbeat secondhands in the big machine, as foreshadowed by the likes of Kerouac, H.S. Thompson, Bukowski,and even Kierkegaard.
When we begin to rush things we supposedly care for, it becomes apparent that we have removed our hearts from things we supposedly care for. Just to speed up the second-hand to that second thing.