mánudagur, júlí 25, 2005
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I notice today on the treadmill that the comfortable lope I have settled into is the same lope I found comfortable at fourteen. At least, it is a lope that would take me a mile on the flat in exactly the time I tended to complete a mile on the school's cinder track as a fourteen-year-old. I stare into the glass wall of the squash court before me. My own dim outline is reflected back, jouncing through the paces, but of course it is not the outline of me at fourteen. All for the best, really.
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I'm reminded of another pace we pick up around age 14 and rarely move beyond, although we are able: reading speed. If anything, most people probably read less a decade or two after leaving secondary school than they did before, and even for the relative literati the pace does not quicken, although it surely could.
Looking at the half-reflection: Seven years ago you were the "same" person, but your entire body, save perhaps the enamel in your smile, has been replaced through daily molecular exchange in repair, upkeep, and growth...who are we, anyway, and looking ahead: Is there a there there through the glass darkly?
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