Time. One singular noun shared by all beings. A thing so translucent its unseen, concretely felt like a pebble in a shoe. There are some who want for it to end, countless who wish it go on. Some wait for their time to come while many more have reconciled that their’s is long since over.
We discern both, the universe and our place in it via the never-ending tick of this tireless pendulum, a round the clock cycle – birth and death, ying and yang – 13.8 billion years old. This entity, an eternally endless thing, helps shelf our existence into neat, singular narratives, labelled and compartmentalized into organized symmetry. An anniversary, a birthday, a graduation. The month of this deity, the day of that goddess. The afternoon you met the love of your life, the night you got your heart broken.
Ironic, isn’t it, how an immeasurable entity becomes a natural unit of measure for both, life and divine? But is time lived or passed? Do we thrive in it, survive it or just use it as a mold to identify and categorize otherwise simultaneous realities? My minute of happiness is also someone’s hour of despair. A sparrow is born, a star dies.
The human mind conjugates its vast, inseparable existence by freezing and photographing it in a fabric of moments. What is form today was once star matter, myth history, physics magic and faith philosophy. By virtue, what’s real now is an illusion being quilted.
Time, and therefore, being, cannot, must not be linear. It’s a tapestry interwoven both across and sideways. Part freedom, part trap, as loud as a heartbeat, as gentle as a wilting rose.