As Bugs in Amber
The Palm Room
All moments, past, present, and future, always have existed, always will exist.
Take it moment by moment and you will find that we are all, as I’ve said before, bugs in amber.
Excerpts from Slaughterhouse–Five by Kurt Vonnegut
These moments are permanent, though often appearing on the threshold of disappearance. We attempt to maintain an unyielding grasp, assuming that their evaporating presence in our minds indicates a fading out of reality. We cling to experiences; ones that encompass more bliss now than ever realized formerly.
Curtains breathe and fans hover, their dance casting shadows on maps drawn into splitting ceilings. The faucet drips in rhythm into the porcelain sink and you are lying in bed, stiller than the house itself, close to a lover yet potentially further than ever. Nothing is special, none of this is extraordinary.
Still it will be kept.
Each action, even in its banality, is confined for eternity, not by its own free will but by the nature of time. And here we are now, in this time and it is not as if we have travelled away from that moment in bed, for even if we tried we could not. You stay, on that bed, in that house, listening to the faucet, watching the domestic dance, feeling the hot steady breath of the one beside you.
These images are not to remind you of a better time and they are not to recreate an old experience. They are here as bugs in amber, small and ordinary yet captured against their will. They remain, and yet simultaneously are being born, flying, eating, dying, crawling, and building. And they are here as we are: eternally, permanently given significance, simply by existence.