September 3, 2015

Dear, Time.

Oh, Time. How we humans have tried to define you and control you. How we wrestle with your presence and our place in it. We carefully watch over you. We build everything in our lives around you. All of our efforts are bound by your existence and we measure ourselves through the appearance of staying ahead of you. We try and try to dominate you before you have a chance to dominate us. 

You slyly smile with a smirk, allowing us to pretend. You know it is our fear of you and our lack of control over you, that pushes us to grasp you so tightly.  

Time, you dress up so nicely as a metaphor. 

We cannot see you or touch you, and yet we get older still. Days pass. Nights come and go, as you remind us to live; to live as if your existence wasn't suppressive, but inspiring instead. And so we battle within to stay present and enjoy you without counting. As a wealthy person would lose his wealth by spending days counting it instead of producing more. 

How will we spend you, dear Time? 

Shall we hold your hand like a loyal companion or race you with a blindfold hoping to be a step ahead of what is? You are always alive, even when we aren't. We wake up one day and realize you have been busy. We wake up and see ourselves older and count our wealth in experiences and lessons. Our children are taking over where our memories had left off and our parents are far beyond our grasp of comfort; reminding us of your truth. 

Oh, Time. You clever and mystical companion. Observing as we sleep through our days. Patiently waiting so that we may discover for ourselves, that we only have so much left of you.

On that magical day, once we have taken enough advantage of you, you shake us awake into this art of truly living. You help us to crack open into the acceptance of what once was; the surrender of what is, and into the courageous vulnerability of opening to the unknown ahead. 

Oh dear, Time. How shall we celebrate you?

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