When I forget to wind the clock up,
the inanimate silence in the kitchen attracts my attention.
The future ripens in the past,
an awareness of the passing of human time.
I sit at the table listening to time,
aware of the past and future that have made me the human I am,
a portrait.
A shape of a motionless, still time.
What happens if that moment is extended indefinitely?
The opposite of the eternal is not the transitory but the forgotten:
still life.
(After reading John Berger)