Timelessness

The timelessness of things which sometimes reduces the facts to a tiny fraction of a second.Like a flash or a furtive grain of sand gobbled up in the immense ocean of an hourglass in the infinity.
Or sometimes, on the contrary, time diluted, stretched, extended, immortalized, turned toward infinity. Until it becomes in our memory, similar to a long and meaningful river.
The meaning that we give to it, or the words that we've been given. 
So, I do not really know any more if the sun shone this day and if the heaviness of the silence was gobbled up forever or if it still remains..
I do not really know which words actually went out of my mouth and who stopped them. I do not really know what my eyes really saw.
There is no other time than the one that we name with our own empirical instruments. The one that the man himself starts up and the one that his hand stops.
My story is not 'one', it is multiple. It is anchored in Time as it is simultaneously detached from it. One single moment can seem to extend over an eternity or to almost vanish in our memory, as furtively as a wink.
There are no stories. No History either. There are punctual, juxtaposed facts. Lived and felt. Mixed some with the others. Leaving a print. Rather belonging to our memory and what it makes of them.
What remains is certainly related to the certainty or the confusion of the feelings.
Our memory, our history. This fuzzy mirror of our soul.
Our story, a myth 'reconstructed' in the light of our more or less abashed memories, that we consider sometimes as real. Firmly, like a stubborn religion sacrificing our reconstructed and re-appropriated self.
We stand outside any chronological logic. Becoming a logic in itself of ourselves.